University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THE  HEARST  CORPORATION 


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OUR  YOUNG  FOLKS 


AN 


ILLUSTRATED    MAGAZINE 


FOR 


BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


EDITED   BY 


J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE  AND  LUCY  LARCOM. 
VOL.    V. 


BOSTON  : 
FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  CO., 

124   TREMONT   STREET. 
1869. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 

FIELDS,     OSGOOD,     &     CO., 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGKLOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

About  Humming-Birds T.  M.  Brewer 578 

After  Pickerel Gaston  Fay 396 

Among  the  Glass-Makers J.  T.  Trowbridge          ...         26,  77 

Apostle  of  Lake  Superior,  The J.  H.  A.  Bone 605 

Beautiful  Gate,  The Helen  Wall  Pierson      ....       52 

Canary  Islands  and  Canary  Birds         ....         James  Parian 309 

Candy- Making Mrs.  Jane  G.  Austin    .        .        .      302,  388 

Carl .         .        Lily  Nelson 296 

Carl's  Christmas  Carol M.  W.  McLain 807 

Cat's  Diary,  The Mrs.  A.M.Diaz       ....          88 

Chased  by  a  Pirate David  A .  Wasson         .         .        .         -747 

Day  on  Carysfort  Reef,  A Elizabeth  C.  Agassiz                                    536 

December  Charade  (Farewell) Mrs.  A.M.Diaz 843 

Discovery  of  the  Madeira  Islands        ....         James  Parton 583 

Diverting  History  of  Little  Whiskey,  The     .        .        .  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe         .        .        .58 

Doctor  Isaac  I.  Hayes 57 

Dr.  Trotty E.  Stuart  Phelps 327 

Doll's  Regatta,  The A  unt  Fanny 772 

Dream  of  the  Little  Boy  who  would  not  eat  his  Crusts  .    Mrs.  A.  M.  Diaz 628 

Dunie  and  the  Ice Sophie  May 99 

Excitement  at  Kettleville,  The  :  A-Dialogue          .        .     F^pes  Sargent 261 

Few  Words  about  the  Crow,  A T.  M.  B 412 

First  New  England  Thanksgiving,  The          .        .        .  J.  H.  A .  Bone                .        .        .        .722 

Gardening  for  Girls A  uthor  of  "  Six  Htmdred  Dollars  a  Year  " 

235.  3i8,  368,  481,  554,  592 

Ghosts  of  the  Mines,  The Maj^or  Traverse          ....        657 

Glass  Cutting  and  Ornamenting J.  T.  Trowbridge 147 

Going  up  in  a  Balloon Junius  Henri  Browne       .        .         .         521 

Golden-Rod  and  Asters        .         .         .         .         .         .  Author  of '"  Seven  Little  Sisters"        .     703 

Great  Pilgrimage,  The J.  H.  A.  Bone 669 

Hannibal  at  the  Altar Elijah  Kellogg 188 

Hot  Buckwheat  Cakes H.  L.  Palmer 798 

How  a  Ship  is  modelled  and  launched         .        .        .  J.  T.  Trowbridge         ....     833 

How  Battles  are  fought Major  Traverse         .         .         .         .         813 

How  Ships  are  built J.  T.  Trowbridge          ....     760 

How  Spotty  was  tried  for  her  Life Ella  Williams 681 

How  to  do  it Edward  Everett  Hale  190,  253,  459,  544, 

664,  790 

In  the  Happy  Valley Atdhor  of '"John  Halifax,  Gentleman"  444 

Kitty;  A  Fairy  Tale  of  Nowadays     ....        Aunt  Fanny 45 

Last  Voyage  of  Rene  Menard J.  H.  A.  Bone 400 

Lawrence  among  the  Coal-Mines         .        .        .        .  J.  T.  Trowbridge      ....        509 

Lawrence  among  the  Iron-Men J.  T.  Trowbridge          .         .        .         .     617 

Lawrence  at  a  Coal- Shaft J-  T.  Trowbridge      ....         357 

Lawrence  in  a  Coal-Mine J.  T.  Trowbridge          ....     434 

Lawrence's  Journey J.  T.  Trowbridge      ...                  289 

Le  Bceuf  Gras Author  of"  John  Halifax,  Gentleman"  825 

Little  Barbara Georgians  M.  Craik          .        .         .         731 

Little  Esther G.  Howard 157 

Lost  at  Sea Georgiana  M.  Craik  ....        602 

Lost  Children,  The  :  A  Juvenile  Play  in  Five  Acts       .  Caroline  H.  Jervey       ....     112 

Navigation  and  Discovery  before  Columbus       .        .  James  Parton    ....          104,  450 

Sixty-Two  Little  Tadpoles Author  of '"  Seven  Little  Sisters"        .     336 

Spray  Sprite,  The Celia  Thaxter 377 

Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  The          .        .        .        .-.**•»•  Thomas  Bailey  A  Idrich  i,  65,  137,  205,  273, 

345.  425.  497.  569>  64i>  7*3.  78S 

Story  of  the  Golden  Christmas-Tree,  The  .        .        ..        Mrs.  A.  M.  Diaz 12 

Strange  Dish  of  Fruits,  A        ......  Major  Traverse         ....         529 

Swan  Story,  The Helen  C.  Weeks 653 


IV 


Contents. 


Terrible  Cape  Bojador,  The    . 

Violets,  The 

Water-Lilies 

White  Giant,  The         .... 
Who  first  used  the  Mariner's  Compass 
William  Henry  Letters,  The 
World  we  live  on,  The     . 


Wrecks  and  Wreckers . 


James  Part  OH 
A  nnie  Moore 

Arithor  of"  Seven  Little  Sisters 
Elsie  Teller 

James  Parton     .         .         .         , 
Mrs.  A  .  M.  Diaz          167,  249,  282,  469,  687 
Elizabeth  C.  Agassiz   38,  162,  217,  382,  694, 

751 
Major  Traverse         ....        226 


739 
243 
470 
184 
176 


POETRY. 

At  Croquet L.G.W. 583 

At  Queen  Maude's  Banquet Lucy  Larcom 260 

Autumn  Days  .........  Marian  Douglas    .....  705 

Berrying  Song Lucy  Larcom 563 

Bird's  Good-Night  Song  to  the  Flowers,  The        .        .  Mrs.  A .  M.  Diaz           ....  98 

Bobolink  and  Canary Mrs.  A.  M.  Wells      .        .         .         .  410 

Christmas-Tide A.  W.  Bellaiu 706 

Cinderella Mrs.  A.  M.  Wells     ....  332 

Going  to  Sleep Mary  N.  Prescott 520 

Honor's  Dream Harriet  Prescott  Spofford         .         .  42 

In  the  Cottage  . Lily  Nelson 477 

Johnny  Tearful George  Cooper 832 

Lady  Moon       .........  Lord  Houghton     .....  491 

Lilies  of  the  Valley Mary  B.  C.  S lade       ....  288 

Little  Culprit,  The Kate  Putnam  Osgood   .         .        .         .183 

Little  Nannie Lucy  Larcom 338 

Little  Sweet-Pea R.  S.  P. 615 

Lost  Willie C.  A.  Barry 103 

Morning-Glory H.  H. 

Morning  Sunbeam,  A A.  Q.  G 197 

Mud  Pies George  Cooper 750 

My  Heroine  :  A  True  Story Author  of1' John  Halifax,  Gentleman"  10 

Red  Riding-Hood Lucy  Larcom 127 

Rivulet,  The          ........  Lucy  Larcom      .....  418 

Sissy's  Ride  in  the  Moon Annette  Bishop 730 

Summer  's  Done  ........  Lily  Nelson         .....  652 

Swing  Away Lucy  Larcom 633 

Taken  at  his  Word •     .        .  R.  S.  P 759 

Three  in  a  Bed George  Cooper        ....      146,  706 

Tom  Twist William  A  lien  Butler       ...  244 

Under  the  Palm-Trees Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 367 

Unsociable  Colt,  The Edgar  Fawcett 450 

Utopia Ed-ward  Wiebi 128 

What  will  become  of  me? Marian  Douglas        ....  224 

Why? L.  G.  W. 663 

Music. 

Berrying  Song F.  Boott 563 

Come  with  me 126 

Home:  Trio 119 

Lady  Moon F.  Boott 491 

Little  Nannie F.  Boott 338 

Rivulet,  The F.  Boott 418 

Swing  Away     .        . F.  Boott 633 

Three  in  a  Bed F.  Boott 706 

Utopia German  Air 128 


ROUND  THE  EVENING  LAMP    .       .       .        .61,  130,  198,  267,  340,  419,  493,  565,  635,  708,  779,  850 
OUR  LETTER  Box 63,  133,  201,  269,  342,  423,  495,  567,  639,  710,  782,  853 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


JANUARY,    1869. 


No.  I. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 

CHAPTER     I. 

IN   WHICH   I   INTRODUCE   MYSELF. 

HIS  is  the  story  of  a  bad  boy.  Well,  not  such 
a  very  bad,  but  a  pretty  bad  boy ;  and  I  ought 
to  know,  for  I  am,  or  rather  I  was,  that  boy 
myself. 

Lest  the  title  should  mislead  the  reader,  I 
hasten  to  assure  him  here  that  I  have  no  dark 
confessions  to  make.  I  call  my  story  the  story 
of  a  bad  boy,  partly  to  distinguish  myself  from 
those  faultless  young  gentlemen  who  generally 
figure  in  narratives  of  this  kind,  and  partly  be 
cause  I  really  was  not  a  cherub.  I  may  truth 
fully  say  I  was  an  amiable,  impulsive  lad,  blessed 
with  fine  digestive  powers,  and  no  hypocrite. 
I  did  n't  want  to  be  an  angel  and  with  the  an 
gels  stand  ;  I  did  n't  think  the  missionary  tracts 
presented  to  me  by  the  Rev.  Wibird  Hawkins 
were  half  so  nice  as  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  and  I 
didn't  send  my  little  pocket-money  to  the  na 
tives  of  the  Feejee  Islands,  but  spent  it  roy 
ally  in  peppermint-drops  and  taffy  candy.  In 
short,  I  was  a  real  human  boy,  such  as  you 

may  meet  anywhere  in  New  England,  and  no  more  like  the  impossible  boy 
in  a  story-book  than  a  sound  orange  is  like  one  that  has  been  sucked  dry. 
But  let  us  begin  at  the  beginning. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.    I.  I 


2  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [January, 

Whenever  a  new  scholar  came  to  our  school,  I  used  to  confront  him  at 
recess  with  the  following  words  :  "  My  name  's  Tom  Bailey  ;  what 's  your 
name  ?"  If  the  name  struck  me  favorably,  I  shook  hands  with  the  new  pupil 
cordially  ;  but,  if  it  did  n't,  I  would  turn  on  my  heel,  for  I  was  particular  on 
this  point.  Such  names  as  Higgins,  Wiggins,  and  Spriggins  were  deadly 
affronts  to  my  ear  ;  while  Langdon,  Wallace,  Blake,  and  the  like,  were  pass 
words  to  my  confidence  and  esteem. 

Ah  me  !  some  of  those  dear  fellows  are  rather  elderly  boys  by  this  time,  — 
lawyers,  merchants,  sea-captains,  soldiers,  authors,  what  not  ?  Phil  Adams 
(a  special  good  name  that  Adams)  is  consul  at  Shanghai,  where  I  picture 
him  to  myself  with  his  head  closely  shaved,  —  he  never  had  too  much  hair, 
—  and  a  long  pigtail  hanging  down  behind.  He  is  married,  I  hear ;  and  I 
hope  he  and  she  that  was  Miss  Wang  Wang  are  very  happy  together,  sitting 
cross-legged  over  their  diminutive  cups  of  tea  in  a  sky-blue  tower  hung  with 
bells.  It  is  so  I  think  of  him  ;  to  me  he  is  henceforth  a  jewelled  mandarin, 
talking  nothing  but  broken  China.  Whitcomb  is  a  judge,  sedate  and  wise, 
with  spectacles  balanced  on  the  bridge  of  that  remarkable  nose  which,  in 
former  days,  was  so  plentifully  sprinkled  with  freckles  that  the  boys  christened 
him  Pepper  Whitcomb.  Just  to  think  of  little  Pepper  Whitcomb  being  a 
judge  !  What  would  he  do  to  me  now,  I  wonder,  if  I  were  to  sing  out  "  Pep 
per  !  "  some  day  in  court  ?  Fred  Langdon  is  in  California,  in  the  native-wine 
business,  —  he  used  to  make  the  best  licorice-water  /  ever  tasted  !  Binny 
Wallace  sleeps  in  the  Old  South  Burying-Ground  ;  and  Jack  Harris,  too,  is 
dead,  —  Harris,  who  commanded  us  boys,  of  old,  in  the  famous  snow-ball 
battles  of  Slatter's  Hill.  Was  it  yesterday  I  saw  him  at  the  head  of  his  regi 
ment  on  its  way  to  join  the  shattered  Army  of  the  Potomac  ?  Not  yester 
day,  but  five  years  ago.  It  was  at  the  battle  of  the  Seven  Pines.  Gallant 
Jack  Harris,  that  never  drew  rein  until  he  had  dashed  into  the  Rebel  battery  ! 
So  they  found  him  —  lying  across  the  enemy's  guns. 

How  we  have  parted,  and  wandered,  and  married,  and  died  !  I  wonder 
what  has  become  of  all  the  boys  who  went  to  the  Temple  Grammar  School 
at  Rivermouth  when  I  was  a  youngster  ? 

"  All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces ! " 

It  is  with  no  ungentle  hand  I  summon  them  back,  for  a  moment,  from  that 
Past  which  has  .closed  upon  them  and  upon  me.  How  pleasantly  they  live 
again  in  my  memory  !  Happy,  magical  Past,  in  whose  fairy  atmosphere  even 
Conway,  mine  ancient  foe,  stands  forth  transfigured,  with  a  sort  of  dreamy 
glory  encircling  his  bright  red  hair  ! 

With  the  old  school  formula  I  commence  these  sketches  of  my  boyhood. 
My  name  is  Tom  Bailey  ;  what  is  yours,  gentle  reader  ?  I  take  for  granted 
it  is  neither  Wiggins  nor  Spriggins,  and  that  we  shall  get  on  famously 
together  in  the  pages  of  this  magazine,  and  be  capital  friends  forever. 


1869.] 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


CHAPTER    II. 

IN   WHICH   I   ENTERTAIN   PECULIAR  VIEWS. 

I  WAS  born  at  Rivermouth,  but,  before  I  had  a  chance  to  become  very  well 
acquainted  with  that  pretty  New  England  town,  my  parents  removed  to  New 
Orleans,  where  my  father  invested  his  money  so  securely  in  the  banking 
business  that  he  was  never  able  to  get  any  of  it  out  again.  But  of  this  here 
after.  I  was  only  eighteen  months  old  at  the  time  of  the  removal,  and  it 
did  n't  make  much  difference  to  me  where  I  was,  because  I  was  so  small ; 
but  several  years  later,  when  my  father  proposed  to  take  me  North  to  be 
educated,  I  had  my  own  peculiar  views  on  the  subject.  I  instantly  kicked 


over  the  little  negro  boy  who  happened  to  be  standing  by  me  at  the  moment, 
and,  stamping  my  foot  violently  on  the  floor  of  the  piazza,  declared  that  I 
would  not  be  taken  away  to  live  among  a  lot  of  Yankees  ! 

You  see  I  was  what  is  called  "  a  Northern  man  with  Southern  principles." 
I  had  no  recollection  of  New  England ;  my  earliest  memories  were  con 
nected  with  the  South,  with  Aunt  Chloe,  my  old  negro  nurse,  and  with  the 
great  ill-kept  garden  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  our  house,  —  a  white 
washed  stone  house  it  was,  with  wide  verandas,  —  shut  out  from  the  street 
by  lines  of  orange  and  magnolia  trees.  I  knew  I  was  born  at  the  North, 
but  hoped  nobody  would  find  it  out.  I  looked  upon  the  misfortune  as  some 
thing  so  shrouded  by  time  and  distance  that  maybe  nobody  remembered  it 
I  never  told  my  schoolmates  I  was  a  Yankee,  because  they  talked  about  the 


4  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [January, 

Yankees  in  such  a  scornful  way  it  made  me  feel  that  it  was  quite  a  disgrace 
not  to  be  born  in  Louisiana,  or  at  least  in  one  of  the  Border  States.  And  this 
impression  was  strengthened  by  Aunt  Chloe,  who  said,  "  dar  was  n't  no  gen- 
tl'men  in  de  Norf  no  way,"  and  on  one  occasion  terrified  me  beyond  meas 
ure  by  declaring  that,  "  if  any  of  dem  mean  whites  tried  to  git  her  away  from 
marster,  she  was  jes'  gwine  to  knock  'em  on  de  head  wid  a  gourd  !  " 

The  way  this  poor  creature's  eyes  flashed,  and  the  tragic  air  with  which 
she  struck  at  an  imaginary  "  mean  white,"  are  among  the  most  vivid  things 
in  my  memory  of  those  days. 

To  be  frank,  my  idea  of  the  North  was  about  as  accurate  as  that  enter 
tained  by  the  well-educated  Englishman  of  the  present  day  concerning 
America.  I  supposed  the  inhabitants  were  divided  into  two  classes, — 
Indians  and  white  people ;  that  the  Indians  occasionally  dashed  down  on 
New  York,  and  scalped  any  woman  or  child  (giving  the  preference  to  chil 
dren)  whom  they  caught  lingering  in  the  outskirts  after  nightfall ;  that  the 
white  men  were  either  hunters  or  schoolmasters,  and  that  it  was  winter 
pretty  much  all  the  year  round.  The  prevailing  style  of  architecture  I  took 
to  be  log  cabins. 

With  this  delightful  picture  of  Northern  civilization  in  my  eye,  the  reader 
will  easily  understand  my  terror  at  the  bare  thought  of  being  transported  to 
Rivermouth  to  school,  and  possibly  will  forgive  me  for  kicking  over  little 
black  Sam,  and  otherwise  misconducting  myself,  when  my  father  announced 
his  determination  to  me.  As  for  kicking  little  Sam,  —  I  always  did  that, 
more  or  less  gently,  when  anything  went  wrong  with  me. 

My  father  was  greatly  perplexed  and  troubled  by  this  unusually  violent 
outbreak,  and  especially  by  the  real  consternation  which  he  saw  written  in 
every  line  of  my  countenance.  As  little  black  Sam  picked  himself  up,  my 
father  took  my  hand  in  his  and  led  me  thoughtfully  to  the  library. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  leaned  back  in  the  bamboo  chair  and  questioned 
me.  He  appeared  strangely  agitated  on  learning  the  nature  of  my  objec 
tions  to  going  North,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  knock  down  all  my  pine-log 
houses,  and  scatter  all  the  Indian  tribes  with  which  I  had  populated  the 
greater  portion  of  the  Eastern  and  Middle  States. 

"  Who  on  earth,  Tom,  has  filled  your  brain  with  such  silly  stories  ? " 
asked  my  father,  wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes. 

"  Aunt  Chloe,  sir  ;  she  told  me." 

"And  you  really  thought  your  grandfather  wore  a  blanket  embroidered 
with  beads,  and  ornamented  his  leggins  with  the  scalps  of  his  enemies  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  did  n't  think  that  exactly." 

"  Did  n't  think  that  exactly  ?    Tom,  you  will  be  the  death  of  me." 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  handkerchief,  and,  when  he  looked  up,  he  seemed  to 
have  been  suffering  acutely.  I  was  deeply  moved  myself,  though  I  did  not 
clearly  understand  what  I  had  said  or  done  to  cause  him  to  feel  so  badly. 
Perhaps  I  had  hurt  his  feelings  by  thinking  it  even  possible  that  Grandfather 
Nutter  was  an  Indian  warrior. 

My  father  devoted  that  evening  and  several  subsequent  evenings  to  giving 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  5 

me  a  clear  and  succinct  account  of  New  England ;  its  early  struggles,  its 
progress,  and  its  present  condition,  —  faint  and  confused  glimmerings  of  all 
which  I  had  obtained  at  school,  where  history  had  never  been  a  favorite  pur 
suit  of  mine. 

I  was  no  longer  unwilling  to  go  North ;  on  the  contrary,  the  proposed 
journey  to  a  new  world  full  of  wonders  kept  me  awake  nights.  I  promised 
myself  all  sorts  of  fun  and  adventures,  though  I  was  not  entirely  at  rest  in 
my  mind  touching  the  savages,  and  secretly  resolved  to  go  on  board  the 
ship  —  the  journey  was  to  be  made  by  sea  —  with  a  certain  little  brass  pistol 
in  my  trousers-pocket,  in  case  of  any  difficulty  with  the  tribes  when  we 
landed  at  Boston. 

I  could  n't  get  the  Indian  out  of  my  head.  Only  a  short  time  previously 
the  Cherokees  —  or  was  it  the  Camanches  ?  —  had  been  removed  from  their 
hunting-grounds  in  Arkansas  ;  and  in  the  wilds  of  the  southwest  the  red  men 
were  still  a  source  of  terror  to  the  border  settlers.  "  Trouble  with  the  In 
dians  "  was  the  staple  news  from  Florida  published  in  the  New  Orleans 
papers.  We  were  constantly  hearing  of  travellers  bejng  attacked  and  mur 
dered  in  the  interior  of  that  State.  If  these  things  were  done  in  Florida,  why 
not  in  Massachusetts  ? 

Yet  long  before  the  sailing  day  arrived  I  was  eager  to  be  off.  My  impa 
tience  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  my  father  had  purchased  for  me  a  fine 
little  Mustang  pony,  and  shipped  it  to  Rivermouth  a  fortnight  previous  to  the 
date  set  for  our  own  departure,  —  for  both  my  parents  were  to  accompany 
me.  This  pony  (which  nearly  kicked  me  out  of  bed  one  night  in  a  dream), 
and  my  father's  promise  that  he  and  my  mother  would  come  to  Rivermouth 
every  other  summer,  completely  resigned  me  to  the  situation.  The  pony's 
name  was  Gitana,  which  is  the  Spanish  for  gypsy ;  so  I  always  called  her  — 
she  was  a  lady  pony  —  Gypsy. 

At  length  the  time  came  to  leave  the  vine-covered  mansion  among  the 
orange-trees,  to  say  good  by  to  little  black  Sam  (I  am  convinced  he  was 
heartily  glad  to  get  rid  of  me),  and  to  part  with  simple  Aunt  Chloe,  who,  in 
the  confusion  of  her  grief,  kissed  an  eyelash  into  my  eye,  and  then  buried 
her  face  in  the  bright  bandanna  turban  which  she  had  mounted  that  morning 
in  honor  of  our  departure. 

I  fancy  them  standing  by  the  open  garden  gate  ;  the  tears  are  rolling  down 
Aunt  Chloe's  cheeks  ;  Sam's  six  front  teeth  are  glistening  like  pearls ;  I 
wave  my  hand  to  him  manfully,  then  I  call  out  "  good  by  "  in  a  muffled  voice 
to  Aunt  Chloe ;  they  and  the  old  home  fade  away.  I  am  never  to  see  them 
again  1 

CHAPTER     III. 

ON   BOARD   THE   TYPHOON. 

I  DO  not  remember  much  about  the  voyage  to  Boston,  for  after  the  first 
few  hours  at  sea  I  was  dreadfully  unwell. 

The  name  of  our  ship  was  the  "  A  No.  I,  fast-sailing  packet  Typhoon." 


6  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [January, 

I  learned  afterwards  that  she  sailed  fast  only  in  the  newspaper  advertise 
ments.  My  father  owned  one  quarter  of  the  Typhoon,  and  that  is  why  we 
happened  to  go  in  her.  I  tried  to  guess  which  quarter  of  the  ship  he  owned, 
and  finally  concluded  it  must  be  the  hind  quarter,  —  the  cabin,  in  which  we 
had  the  cosiest  of  state-rooms,  with  one  round  window  in  the  roof  and  two 
shelves  or  boxes  nailed  up  against  the  wall  to  sleep  in. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  confusion  on  deck  while  we  were  getting  under 
way.  The  captain  shouted  orders  (to  which  nobody  seemed  to  pay  any 
attention)  through  a  battered  tin  trumpet,  and  grew  so  red  in  the  face  that 
he  reminded  me  of  a  scooped-out  pumpkin  with  a  lighted  candle  inside.  He 
swore  right  and  left  at  the  sailors  without  the  slightest  regard  for  their  feel 
ings.  They  did  n't  mind  it  a  bit,  however,  but  went  on  singing,  — 

"  Heave  ho  ! 
With  the  rum  below. 
And  hurrah  for  the  Spanish  Main  O  !  " 

I  will  not  be  positive  about  "  the  Spanish  Main,"  but  it  was  hurrah  for  some 
thing  O.  I  considered  them  very  jolly  fellows,  and  so  indeed  they  were. 
One  weather-beaten  tar  in  particular  struck  my  fancy,  —  a  thick-set  jovial 
man,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a  fringe  of  gray 
hair  circling  his  head  like  a  cfown.  As  he  took  off  his  tarpaulin  I  observed 
that  the  top  of  his  head  was  quite  smooth  and  flat,  as  if  somebody  had  sat 
down  on  him  when  he  was  very  young. 

There  was  something  noticeably  hearty  in  this  man's  bronzed  face,  a  heart 
iness  that  seemed  to  extend  to  his  loosely  knotted  neckerchief.  But  what 
completely  won  my  good-will  was  a  picture  of  enviable  loveliness  painted  on 
his  left  arm.  It  was  the  head  of  a  woman  with  the  body  of  a  fish.  Her  flow 
ing  hair  was  of  livid  green,  and  she  held  a  pink  comb  in  one  hand.  I  never 
saw  anything  so  beautiful.  I  determined  to  know  that  man.  I  think  I  would 
have  given  my  brass  pistol  to  have  had  such  a  picture  painted  on  my  arm. 

While  I  stood  admiring  this  work  of  art,  a  fat,  wheezy  steam-tug,  with  the 
word  AJAX  in  staring  black  letters  on  the  paddle-box,  came  puffing  up 
alongside  the  Typhoon.  It  was  ridiculously  small  and  conceited,  compared 
with  our  stately  ship.  I  speculated  as  to  what  it  was  going  to  do.  In  a  few 
minutes  we  were  lashed  to  the  little  monster,  which  gave  a  snort  and  a  shriek, 
and  commenced  backing  us  out  trom  the  levee  (wharf)  with  the  greatest 
ease. 

I  once  saw  an  ant  running  away  with  a  piece  of  cheese  eight  or  ten  times 
larger  than  itself.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  it,  when  I  found  the  chubby, 
smoky-nosed  tug-boat  towing  the  Typhoon  out  into  the  Mississippi  River. 

In  the  middle  of  the  stream  we  swung  round,  the  current  caught  us,  and 
away  we  flew  like  a  great  winged  bird.  Only  it  did  n't  seem  as  if  we  were 
moving.  The  shore,  with  the  countless  steamboats,  the  tangled  rigging  of 
the  ships,  and  the  long  lines  of  warehouses,  appeared  to  be  gliding  away 
from  us. 

It  was  grand  sport  to  stand  on  the  quarter-deck  and  watch  all  this.  Be 
fore  long  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  on  either  side  but  stretches  of  low 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  7 

swampy  land,  covered  with  stunted  cypress-trees,  from  which  drooped  deli 
cate  streamers  of  Spanish  moss,  —  a  fine  place  for  alligators  and  congo 
snakes.  Here  and  there  we  passed  a  yellow  sand-bar,  and  here  and  there  a 
snag  lifted  its  nose  out  of  the  water  like  a  shark. 

"This  is  your  last  chance,  to  see  the  city,  Tom,"  said  my  father,  as  we 
swept  round  a  bend  of  the  river. 

I  turned  and  looked.  New  Orleans  was  just  a  colorless  mass  of  some 
thing  in  the  sunset,  and  the  dome  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  upon  which  the 
sun  shimmered  for  a  moment,  was  no  bigger  than  the  top  of  old  Aunt 
Chloe's  thimble. 

What  do  I  remember  next  ?  the  gray  sky  and  the  fretful  blue  waters  of 
the  Gulf.  The  steam-tug  had  long  since  let  slip  her  hawsers,  and  gone  pant 
ing  away  with  a  derisive  scream,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  've  done  my  duty, 
now  look  out  for  yourself,  old  Typhoon  !  " 

The  ship  seemed  quite  proud  of  being  left  to  take  care  of  itself,  and,  with 
its  huge  white  sails  bulged  out,  strutted  off  like  a  vain  turkey.  I  had  been 
standing  by  my  father  near  the  wheel-house  all  this  while,  observing  things 
with  that  nicety  of  perception  which  belongs  only  to  children  ;  but  now  the 
dew  began  falling,  and  we  went  below  to  have  supper. 

The  fresh  fruit  and  milk,  and  the  slices  of  cold  chicken,  looked  rery  nice ; 
yet  somehow  I  had  no  appetite.  There  was  a  general  smell  of  tar  about 
everything.  Then  the  ship  gave  sudden  lurches  that  made  it  a  matter  of  un 
certainty  whether  one  was  going  to  put  his  fork  to  his  mouth  or  into  his  ey». 
The  tumblers  and  wineglasses,  stuck  in  a  rack  over  the  table,  kept  clinking 
and  clinking ;  and  the  cabin  lamp,  suspended  by  four  gilt  chains  from  the 
ceiling,  swayed  to  and  fro  crazily.  Now  the  floor  seemed  to  rise,  and  now  it 
seemed  to  sink  under  one's  feet  like  a  feather-bed. 

There  were  not  more  than  a  dozen  passengers  on  board,  including  our 
selves  ;  and  all  of  these,  excepting  a  bald-headed  old  gentleman,  —  a  retired 
sea-captain,  —  disappeared  into  their  state-rooms  at  an  early  hour  of  the 
evening. 

After  supper  was  cleared  away,  my  father  and  the  elderly  gentleman,  whose 
name  was  Captain  Truck,  played  at  checkers  ;  and  I  amused  myself  for  a 
while  by  watching  the  trouble  they  had  in  keeping  the  men  in  the  proper 
places.  Just  at  the  most  exciting  point  of  the  game,  the  ship  would  careen, 
and  down  would  go  the  white  checkers  pell-mell  among  the  black.  Then  my 
father  laughed,  but  Captain  Truck  would  grow  very  angry,  and  vow  that  he 
would  have  won  the  game  in  a  move  or  two  more,  if  the  confounded  old 
chicken-coop  —  that 's  what  he  called  the  ship  —  had  n't  lurched. 

"I  —  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed  now,  please,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  on  my 
father's  knee,  and  feeling  exceedingly  queer. 

It  was  high  time,  for  the  Typhoon  was  plunging  about  in  the  most  alarm 
ing  fashion.  I  was  speedily  tucked  away  in  the  upper  berth,  where  I  felt  a 
trifle  more  easy  at  first.  My  clothes  were  placed  on  a  narrow  shelf  at  my 
feet,  and  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  know  that  my  pistol  was  so  handy, 
for  I  made  no  doubt  we  should  fall  in  with  Pirates  before  many  hours.  This 


8  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [January, 

is  the  last  thing  I  remember  with  any  distinctness.  At  midnight,  as  I  was 
afterwards  told,  we  were  struck  by  a  gale  which  never  left  us  until  we  came 
in  sight  of  the  Massachusetts  coast. 

For  days  and  days  I  had  no  sensible  idea  of  what  was  going  on  around 
me.  That  we  were  being  hurled  somewhere  upside-down,  and  that  I  did  n't 
like  it,  was  about  all  I  knew.  I  have,  indeed,  a  vague  impression  that  my 
father  used  to  climb  up  to  the  berth  and  call  me  his  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  bid 
ding  me  cheer  up.  But  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  far  from  cheering  up,  if  I 
recollect  rightly ;  and  I  don't  believe  that  venerable  navigator  would  have 
cared  much  if  it  had  been  announced  to  him,  through  a  speaking-trumpet, 
that  "  a  low,  black,  suspicious  craft,  with  raking  masts,  was  rapidly  bearing 
down  upon  us  !  " 

In  fact,  one  morning,  I  thought  that  such  was  the  case,  for  bang  !  went 
the  big  cannon  I  had  noticed  in  the  bow  of  the  ship  when  we  came  on  board, 
and  which  had  suggested  to  me  the  idea  about  pirates.  Bang  !  went  the  gun 
again  in  a  few  seconds.  I  made  a  feeble  effort  to  get  at  my  trousers-pocket ! 
But  the  Typhoon  was  only  saluting  Cape  Cod,  —  the  first  land  sighted  by 
vessels  approaching  the  coast  from  a  southerly  direction. 

The  vessel  had  ceased  to  roll,  and  my  sea-sickness  passed  away  as  rapidly 
as  it  came.  I  was  all  right  now,  "  only  a  little  shaky  in  my  timbers  and  a 
little  blue  about  the  gills,"  as  Captain  Truck  remarked  to  my  mother,  who, 
like  myself,  had  been  confined  to  the  state-room  during  the  passage. 

At  Cape  Cod  the  wind  parted  company  with  us  without  saying  so  much  as 
"  Excuse  me  "  ;  so  we  were  nearly  two  days  in  making  the  run  which  in 
favorable  weather  is  usually  accomplished  in  seven  hours.  That's  what 
the  pilot  said. 

I  was  able  to  go  about  the  ship  now,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  cultivating  the 
acquaintance  of  the  sailor  with  the  green-haired  lady  on  his  arm.  I  found 
him  in  the  forecastle,  —  a  sort  of  cellar  in  the  front  part  of  the  vessel.  He 
was  an  agreeable  sailor,  as  I  had  expected,  and  we  became  the  best  of  friends 
in  five  minutes. 

He  had  been  all  over  the  world  two  or  three  times,  and  knew  no  end  of 
stories.  According  to  his  own  account,  he  must  have  been  shipwrecked  at 
least  twice  a  year  ever  since  his  birth.  He  had  served  under  Decatur  when 
that  gallant  officer  peppered  the  Algerines  and  made  them  promise  not  to 
sell  their  prisoners  of  war  into  slavery ;  he  had  worked  a  gun  at  the  bom 
bardment  of  Vera  Cruz  in  the  Mexican  War,  and  he  had  been  on  Alexander 
Selkirk's  island  more  than  once.  There  were  very  few  things  he  had  n't 
done  in  a  seafaring  way. 

"  I  suppose,  sir,"  I  remarked,  "  that  your  name  is  n't  Typhoon  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lord  love  ye,  lad,  my  name  's  Benjamin  Watson,  of  Nantucket. 
But  I  'm  a  true-blue  Typhooner,"  he  added,  which  increased  my  respect  for 
him  ;  I  don't  know  why,  and  I  did  n't  know  then  whether  Typhoon  was  the 
name  of  a  vegetable  or  a  profession. 

Not  wishing  to  be  outdone  in  frankness,  I  disclosed  to  him  that  my  name 
was  Tom  Bailey,  upon  which  he  said  he  was  very  glad  to  hear  it. 


i869.j 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


When  we  got  more  intimate,  I  discovered  that  Sailor  Ben,  as  he  wished 
me  to  call  him,  was  a  perfect  walking  picture-book.  He  had  two  anchors,  a 
star,  and  a  frigate  in  full  sail  on  his  right  arm  ;  a  pair  of  lovely  blue  hands 
clasped  on  his  breast,  and  I  Ve  no  doubt  that  other  parts  of  his  body  were 
illustrated  in  the  same  agreeable  manner.  I  imagine  he  was  fond  of  draw 


ings,  and  took  this  means  of  gratifying  his  artistic  taste.  It  was  certainly 
very  ingenious  and  convenient.  A  portfolio  might  be  misplaced,  or  dropped 
overboard ;  but  Sailor  Ben  had  his  pictures  wherever  he  went,  just  as  that 
eminent  person  in  the  poem  — 

"  With  rings  on  her  fingers  and  bells  on  her  toes"  — 

was  accompanied  by  music  on  all  occasions. 

The  two  hands  on  his  breast,  he  informed  me,  constituted  a  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  a  dead  messmate  from  whom  he  had  parted  years  ago,  —  and 
surely  a  more  touching  tribute  was  never  engraved  on  a  tombstone.  This 
caused  me  to  think  of  my  parting  with  old  Aunt  Chloe,  and  I  told  him  I  should 
take  it  as  a  great  favor  indeed  if  he  would  paint  a  pink  hand  and  a  black  hand 
on  my  chest.  He  said  the  colors  were  pricked  into  the  skin  with  needles, 


io  My  Heroine.  [January, 

and  that  the  operation  was  somewhat  painful.     I  assured  him,  in  an  off-hand 
manner,  that  I  did  n't  mind  pain,  and  begged  him  to  set  to  work  at  once. 

The  simple-hearted  fellow,  who  was  probably  not  a  little  vain  of  his  skill, 
took  me  into  the  forecastle,  and  was  on  the  point  of  complying  with  my 
request,  when  my  father  happened  to  look  down  the  gangway,  —  a  circum 
stance  that  rather  interfered  with  the  decorative  art. 

I  did  n't  have  another  opportunity  of  conferring  alone  with  Sailor  Ben,  for 
the  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cupola  of  the 
Boston  State  House. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


MY     HEROINE. 

A   TRUE    STORY. 

I   KNEW  a  little  maid,  —  as  sweet 
As  any  seven  years'  child  you  '11  meet 
In  mansion  grand  or  village  street, 

However  charming  they  be  : 
She  '11  never  know  of  this  my  verse 
When  I  her  simple  tale  rehearse  ;  — 
A  cottage  girl,  made  baby-nurse 
Unto  another  baby. 

Till  then  how  constant  she  at  school  ! 
Her  tiny  hands  of  work  how  full  ! 
And  never  careless,  never  dull, 

As  little  scholars  may  be. 
Her  absence  questioned,  with  cheek  red 
And  gentle  lifting  of  the  head, 
"  Ma'am,  I  could  not  be  spared,"  she  said 

"  I  had  to  mind  my  baby." 

Her  baby  ;  oft  along  the  lane 

She  'd  carry  it  with  such  sweet  pain 

On  summer  holidays,  —  full  fain 

To  let  both  work  and  play  be  : 
But,  at  the  school  hour  told  to  start, 
She  'd  turn  with  sad  divided  heart 
'Twixt  scholar's  wish  and  mother's  part, 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  baby  !  " 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


FEBRUARY,    1869. 


No.  II. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER    IV. 

RIVERMOUTH. 

T  was  a  beautiful  May  morning  when  the  Ty 
phoon  hauled  up  at  Long  Wharf.  Whether 
the  Indians  were  not  early  risers,  or  whether 
they  were  away  just  then  on  a  war-path,  I 
could  n't  determine  ;  but  they  did  not  appear  in 
any  great  force,  —  in  fact,  did  not  appear  at  all. 
In  the  remarkable  geography  which  I  never 
hurt  myself  with  studying  at  Isfew  Orleans,  was 
a  picture  representing  the  landing  of  the  Pil 
grim  Fathers  at  Plymouth.  The  Pilgrim  Fa 
thers,  in  rather  odd  hats  and  coats,  are  seen 
approaching  the  savages  ;  the  savages,  in  no 
coats  or  hats  to  speak  of,  are  evidently  unde 
cided  whether  to  shake  hands  with  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  or  to  make  one  grand  rush  and  scalp 
the  entire  party.  Now  this  scene  had  so 
stamped  itself  on  my  mind,  that,  in  spite  of  all 
my  father  had  said,  I  was  prepared  for  some 
such  greeting  from  the  aborigines.  Neverthe 
less,  I  was  not  sorry  to  have  my  expectations 
unfulfilled.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  Pil 
grim  Fathers,  I  often  used  to  wonder  why  there 
was  no  mention  made  of  the  Pilgrim  Mothers. 
While  our  trunks  were  being  hoisted  from 
the  hold  of  the  ship,  I  mounted  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin,  and  took  a  critical 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  ef  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.    II.  5 


66 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


[February, 


view  of  Boston.  As  we  came  up  the  harbor,  I  had  noticed  that  the  houses 
were  huddled  together  on  an  immense  hill,  at  the  top  of  which  was  a  large 
building,  the  State  House,  towering  proudly  above  the  rest,  like  an  amiable 
mother-hen  surrounded  by  her  brood  of  many-colored  chickens.  A  closer 
inspection  did  not  impress  me  very  favorably.  The  city  was  not  nearly  so 
imposing  as  New  Orleans,  which  stretches  out  for  miles  and  miles,  in  the 
shape  of  a  crescent,  along  the  banks  of  the  majestic  river. 

I  soon  grew  tired  of  looking  at  the  masses  of  houses,  rising  above  one  an 
other  in  irregular  tiers,  and  was  glad  my  father  did  not  propose  to  remain 
long  in  Boston.  As  I  leaned  over  the  rail  in  this  mood,  a  measly-looking 
little  boy  with  no  shoes  said  that  if  I  would  come  down  on  the  wharf  he  'd 


lick  me  for  two  cents,  — not  an  exorbitant  price.  But  I  didn't  go  down.  I 
climbed  into  the  rigging,  and  stared  at  him.  This,  as  I  was  rejoiced  to  ob 
serve,  so  exasperated  him  that  he  stood  on  his  head  on  a  pile  of  boards,  in 
order  to  pacify  himself. 

The  first  train  for  Rivermouth  left  at  noon.  After  a  late  breakfast  on 
board  the  Typhoon,  our  trunks  were  piled  upon  a  baggage-wagon,  and  our- 
-selves  stowed  away  in  a  coach,  which  must  have  turned  at  least  one  hundred 
corners  before  it  set  us  down  at  the  railway  station. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  67 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  we  were  shooting  across  the  country  at 
a  fearful  rate,  —  now  clattering  over  a  bridge,  now  screaming  through  a  tun 
nel  ;  here  we  cut  a  nourishing  village  in  two,  like  a  knife,  and  here  we  dived 
into  the  shadow  of  a  pine  forest.  Before  a  fellow  could  tell  where  he  was,  he 
was  somewhere  else.  Sometimes  we  glided  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean,  and 
could  see  the  sails  of  ships  twinkling  like  bits  of  silver  against  the  horizon  ; 
sometimes  we  dashed  across  rocky  pasture-lands  where  stupid-eyed  cattle 
were  loafing.  It  was  fun  to  scare  the  lazy-looking  cows  that  lay  round  in 
groups  under  the  newly  budded  trees  near  the  railroad  track. 

Whenever  we  approached  a  village,  the  engineer  sounded  his  bell,  and 
slackened  the  speed  of  the  train ;  but  we  did  not  pause  at  any  of  the  little 
brown  stations  on  the  route  (they  looked  just  like  overgrown  black-walnut 
clocks),  though  at  every  one  of  them  a  man  popped  out  as  if  he  were  worked 
by  machinery,  and  waved  a  red  flag,  and  appeared  as  though  he  would  like 
to  have  us  stop.  But  we  were  an  express  train,  and  made  no  stoppages, 
excepting  once  or  twice  to  give  the  engine  a  drink. 

It  is  strange  how  the  memory  clings  to  some  things.  It  is  over  twenty 
years  since  I  took  that  first  ride  to  Rivermouth,  and  yet,  oddly  enough,  I 
remember  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  that,  as  we  passed  slowly  through  the  village 
of  Hampton,  we  saw  two  boys  fighting  behind  a  red  barn.  There  was  also 
a  shaggy  yellow  dog,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  commenced  to  unravel,  barking 
himself  all  up  into  a  knot  with  excitement.  We  had  only  a  hurried  glimpse 
of  the  battle, — long  enough,  however,  to  see  that  the  combatants  were 
equally  matched  and  very  much  in  earnest.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  how  many 
times  since  I  have  speculated  as  to  which  boy  got  licked.  Maybe  both  the 
small  rascals  are  dead  now  (not  in  consequence  of  the  set-to,  let  us  hope),  or 
maybe  they  are  married,  and  have  pugnacious  urchins  of  their  own  ;  yet  to 
this  day  I  sometimes  find  myself  wondering  how  that  fight  turned  out. 

We  had  been  riding  perhaps  two  hours  and  a  half,  when  we  shot  by  a  tall 
factory  with  a  chimney  resembling  a  church  steeple ;  then  the  locomotive 
gave  a  scream,  the  engineer  rung  his  bell,  and  we  plunged  into  the  twilight 
of  a  long  wooden  building,  open  at  both  ends.  Here  we  stopped,  and  the 
conductor,  thrusting  his  head  in  at  the  car  door,  cried  out,  "  Passengers  for 
Rivermouth  ! " 

At  last  we  had  reached  our  journey's  end.  On  the  platform  my  father 
shook  hands  with  a  straight,  brisk  old  gentleman  whose  face  was  very  serene 
and  rosy.  He  had  on  a  white  hat  and  a  long  swallow-tailed  coat,  the  collar 
of  which  came  clear  up  above  his  ears.  He  did  n't  look  unlike  a  Pilgrim 
Father.  This,  of  course,  was  Grandfather  Nutter,  at  whose  house  I  was 
born.  My  mother  kissed  him  a  great  many  times ;  and  I  was  glad  to  see 
him  myself,  though  I  naturally  did  not  feel  very  intimate  with  a  person  whom 
I  had  not  seen  since  I  was  eighteen  months  old. 

While  we  were  getting  into  the  double-seated  wagon  which  Grandfather 
Nutter  had  provided,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  asking  after  the  health  of  the 
pony.  The  pony  had  arrived  all  right  ten  days  before,  and  was  in  the  stable 
at  home,  quite  anxious  to  see  me. 


68  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [February, 

As  we  drove  through  the  quiet  old  town,  I  thought  Rivermouth  the  pretti 
est  place  in  the  world  ;  and  I  think  so  still.  The  streets  are  long  and  wide, 
shaded  by  gigantic  American  elms,  whose  drooping  branches,  interlacing  here 
and  there,  span  the  avenues  with  arches  graceful  enough  to  be  the  handi 
work  of  fairies.  Many  of  the  houses  have  small  flower-gardens  in  front,  gay 
with  china-asters,  and  are  substantially  built,  with  massive  chimney-stacks 
and  protruding  eaves.  A  beautiful  river  goes  rippling  by  the  town,  and,  after 
turning  and  twisting  among  a  lot  of  tiny  islands,  empties  itself  into  the 
sea. 

The  harbor  is  so  fine  that  the  largest  ships  can  sail  directly  up  to  the 
wharves  and  drop  anchor.  Only  they  don't.  Years  ago  it  was  a  famous  sea 
port.  Princely  fortunes  were  made  in  the  West  India  trade  ;  and  in  1812, 
when  we  were  at  war  with  Great  Britain,  any  number  of  privateers  were  fitted 
out  at  Rivermouth  to  prey  upon  the  merchant  vessels  of  the  enemy.  Certain 
people  grew  suddenly  and  mysteriously  rich.  A  great  many  of  "  the  first 
families  "  of  to-day  do  not  care  to  trace  their  pedigree  back  to  the  time  when 
their  grandsires  owned  shares  in  the  Matilda  Jane,  twenty-four  guns. 
Well,  well ! 

Few  ships  come  to  Rivermouth  now.  Commerce  drifted  into  other  ports. 
The  phantom  fleet  sailed  off  one  day,  and  never  came  back  again.  The 
crazy  old  warehouses  are  empty ;  and  barnacles  and  eel-grass  cling  to  the 
piles  of  the  crumbling  wharfs,  where  the  sunshine  lies  lovingly,  bringing  out 
the  faint  spicy  odor  that  haunts  the  place,  —  the  ghost  of  the  old  dead  West 
India  trade  ! 

During  our  ride  from  the  station,  I  was  struck,  of  course,  only  by  the  gen 
eral  neatness  of  the  houses  and  the  beauty  of  the  elm-trees  lining  the  streets. 
I  describe  Rivermouth  now  as  I  came  to  know  it  afterwards. 

Rivermouth  is  a  very  ancient  town.  In  my  day  there  existed  a  tradition 
among  the  boys  that  it  was  here  Christopher  Columbus  made  his  first  land 
ing  on  this  continent.  I  remember  having  the  exact  spot  pointed  out  to  me 
by  Pepper  Whitcomb  !  One  thing  is  certain,  Captain  John  Smith,  who  after 
wards,  according  to  the  legend,  married  Pocahontas,  —  whereby  he  got  Pow- 
hatan  for  a  father-in-law,  —  explored  the  river  in  1614,  and  was  much 
charmed  by  the  beauty  of  Rivermouth,  which  at  that  time  was  covered  with 
wild  strawberry-vines. 

Rivermouth  figures  prominently  in  all  the  colonial  histories.  It  was  loyal 
to  the  English  king  as  long  as  loyalty  was  a  virtue,  and  then  turned  round 
and  helped  to  thrash  His  Majesty  with  a  readiness  truly  touching.  When 
ever  there  is  any  fighting  to  be  done,  the  Rivermouth  men  are  on  the  alert. 
Such  has  been  their  character  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Who  can  tell 
how  many  of  the  brave  fellows  lie  under  the  walls  of  Quebec,  in  the  trenches 
at  Bunker  Hill,  in  the  dark  woods  of  Chancellors ville  ?  Outside  the  town  is 
a  mossy  graveyard  in  which  there  have  been  no  interments  these  four  gen 
erations.  Here  you  can  read  on  quaintly  sculptured  tombstones  the  names 
of  doughty  naval  captains  and  bold  horsemen  whose  bodies  lie  else 
where. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  69 

"  Their  bones  are  dust, 

And  their  good  swords  rust  : 
Their  souls  are  with  the  saints,  I  trust."  * 

Every  other  house  in  the  place  has  its  tradition  more  or  less  grim  and 
entertaining.  If  ghosts  could  nourish  anywhere,  there  are  certain  streets 
in  Rivermouth  that  would  be  full  of  them.  I  don't  know  of  a  town 
with  so  many  old  houses.  Let  us  linger,  for  a  moment,  in  front  of  the 
one  which  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  is  always  sure  to  point  out  to  the  curious 
stranger. 

It  is  a  square  wooden  edifice,  with  gambrel  roof  and  deep-set  window- 
frames.  Over  the  windows  and  doors  there  used  to  be  heavy  carvings,  — 
oak-leaves  and  acorns,  and  angels'  heads  with  wings  spreading  from  the  ears, 
oddly  jumbled  together ;  but  these  ornaments  and  other  outward  signs  of 
grandeur  have  long  since  disappeared.  A  peculiar  interest  attaches  itself  to 
this  house,  not  because  of  its  age,  for  it  has  not  been  standing  quite  a  cen 
tury  ;  nor  on  account  of  its  architecture,  which  is  not  striking,  —  but  because 
of  the  illustrious  men  who  at  various  periods  have  occupied  its  spacious 
chambers. 

In  1770  it  was  an  aristocratic  hotel.  At  the  left  side  of  the  entrance  stood 
a  high  post,  from  which  swung  the  sign  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax.  The  land 
lord  was  a  stanch  royalist,  —  that  is  to  say,  he  believed  in  the  king  ;  and 
when  the  overtaxed  colonies  determined  to  throw  off  the  British  yoke,  the 
adherents  to  the  Crown  held  private  meetings  in  one  of  the  back  rooms  of 
the  tavern.  This  irritated  the  rebels,  as  they  were  called  ;  and  one  night  they 
made  an  attack  on  the  Earl  of  Halifax,  tore  down  the  signboard,  broke 
in  the  window-sashes,  and  gave  the  landlord  hardly  time  to  make  himself  in 
visible  over  a  fence  in  the  rear. 

For  several  months  the  shattered  tavern  remained  deserted.  At  last  the 
exiled  innkeeper,  on  promising  to  do  better,  was  allowed  to  return ;  a  new 
sign,  bearing  the  name  of  William  Pitt,  the  friend  of  America,  swung  proudly 
from  the  door-post,  and  the  patriots  were  appeased.  Here  it  was  that  the 
mail-coach  from  Boston  twice  a  week,  for  many  a  year,  set  down  its  load  of 
travellers  and  gossip.  For  some  of  the  details  in  this  sketch,  I  am  indebted 
to  a  recently  published  chronicle  of  those  times. 

It  is  1782.  The  French  fleet  is  lying  in  the  harbor  of  Rivermouth,  and 
eight  of  the  principal  officers,  in  white  uniforms  trimmed  with  gold-lace,  have 
taken  up  their  quarters  at  the  sign  of  the  William  Pitt.  Who  is  this 
young  and  handsome  officer  now  entering  the  door  of  the  tavern  ?  It  is  no 
less  a  personage  than  the  Marquis  Lafayette,  who  has  come  all  the  way  from 
Providence  to  visit  the  French  gentlemen  boarding  there.  What  a  gallant- 
looking  cavalier  he  is,  with  his  quick  eyes  and  coal-black  hair  !  Forty  years 
later  he  visited  the  spot  again  ;  his  locks  were  gray  and  his  step  was  feeble, 
but  his  heart  held  its  young  love  for  Liberty. 

Who  is  this  finely  dressed  traveller  alighting  from  his  coach-and-four, 
attended  by  servants  in  livery  ?  Do  you  know  that  sounding  name,  written 

*  Altered  from  Coleridge. 


/o  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [February, 

in  big  valorous  letters  on  the  Declaration  of  Independence, — written  as  if 
by  the  hand  of  a  giant  ?     Can  you  not  see  it  now  ?  — 


This  is  he. 

Three  young  men,  with  their  valet,  are  standing  on  the  door-step  of  the 
William  Pitt,  bowing  politely,  and  inquiring  in  the  most  courteous  terms 
in  the  world  if  they  can  be  accommodated.  It  is  the  time  of  the  French  Rev 
olution,  and  these  are  three  sons  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  —  Louis  Philippe 
and  his  two  brothers.  Louis  Philippe  never  forgot  his  visit  to  Rivermouth. 
Years  afterwards,  when  he  was  seated  on  the  throne  of  France,  he  asked  an 
American  lady,  who  chanced  to  be  at  his  court,  if  the  pleasant  old  mansion 
were  still  standing. 

But  a  greater  and  a  better  man  than  the  king  of  the  French  has  honored  this 
roof.  Here,  in  1789,  came  George  Washington,  the  President  of  the  United 
States,  to  pay  his  final  complimentary  visit  to  the  State  dignitaries.  The 
wainscoted  chamber  where  he  slept,  and  the  dining-hall  where  he  enter 
tained  his  guests,  have  a  certain  dignity  and  sanctity  which  even  the  present 
Irish  tenants  cannot  wholly  destroy. 

During  the  period  of  my  reign  at  Rivermouth,  an  ancient  lady,  Dame  Joce- 
lyn  by  name,  lived  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms  of  this  notable  building.  She 
was  a  dashing  young  belle  at  the  time  of  Washington's  first  visit  to  the  town, 
and  must  have  been  exceedingly  coquettish  and  pretty,  judging  from  a  cer 
tain  portrait  on  ivory  still  in  the  possession  of  the  family.  According  to 
Dame  Jocelyn,  George  Washington  flirted  with  her  just  a  little  bit,  —  in  what 
a  stately  and  highly  finished  manner  can  be  imagined.  There  was  a  mirror 
with  a  deep  filigreed  frame  hanging  over  the  mantel-piece  in  this  room.  The 
glass  was  cracked  and  the  quicksilver  rubbed  off  or  discolored  in  many 
places.  When  it  reflected  your  face  you  had  the  singular  pleasure  of  not 
recognizing  yourself.  It  gave  your  features  the  appearance  of  having  been 
run  through  a  mince-meat  machine.  But  what  rendered  the  looking-glass  a 
thing  of  enchantment  to  me  was  a  faded  green  feather,  tipped  with  scarlet, 
which  drooped  from  the  top  of  the  tarnished  gilt  mouldings.  This  feather 
Washington  took  from  the  plume  of  his  three-cornered  hat,  and  presented 
with  his  own  hand  to  the  worshipful  Mistress  Jocelyn  the  day  he  left  River- 
mouth  forever.  I  wish  I  could  describe  the  mincing  genteel  air,  and  the  ill- 
concealed  self-complacency,  with  which  the  dear  old  lady  related  the  incident. 

Many  a  Saturday  afternoon  have  I  climbed  up  the  rickety  staircase  to  that 
dingy  room,  which  always  had  a  flavor  of  snuff  about  it,  to  sit  on  a  stiff- 
backed  chair  and  listen  for  hours  together  to  Dame  Jocelyn's  stories  of  the 
olden  time.  How  she  would  prattle  !  She  was  bedridden,  —  poor  creature  ! 
—  and  had  not  been  out  of  the  chamber  for  fourteen  years.  Meanwhile  the 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  71 

world  had  shot  ahead  of  Dame  Jocelyn.  The  changes  that  had  taken  place 
under  her  very  nose  were  unknown  to  this  faded,  crooning  old  gentlewoman, 
whom  the  eighteenth  century  had  neglected  to  take  away  with  the  rest  of 
its  odd  traps.  She  had  no  patience  with  new-fangled  notions.  The  old  ways 
and  the  old  times  were  good  enough  for  her.  She  had  never  seen  a  steam- 
engine,  though  she  had  heard  "  the  dratted  thing  "  screech  in  the  distance. 
In  her  day,  when  gentlefolk  travelled,  they  went  in  their  own  coaches.  She 
did  n't  see  how  respectable  people  could  bring  themselves  down  to  "  riding 
in  a  car  with  rag-tag  and  bobtail  and  Lord-knows-who."  Poor  old  aristo 
crat  !  the  landlord  charged  her  no  rent  for  the  room,  and  the  neighbors  took 
turns  in  supplying  her  with  meals.  Towards  the  close  of  her  life,  —  she  lived 
to  be  ninety-nine,  —  she  grew  very  fretful  and  capricious  about  her  food.  If 
she  didn't  chance  to  fancy  what  was  sent  her,  she  had  no  hesitation  in  send 
ing  it  back  to  the  giver  with  "  Miss  Jocelyn's  respectful  compliments." 

But  I  have  been  gossiping  too  long,  —  and  yet  not  too  long  if  I  have  im 
pressed  upon  the  reader  an  idea  of  what  a  rusty,  delightful  old  town  it  was  to 
which  I  had  come  to  spend  the  next  three  or  four  years  of  my  boyhood. 

A  drive  of  twenty  minutes  from  the  station  brought  us  to  the  door-step  of 
Grandfather  Nutter's  house.  What  kind  of  house  it  was,  and  what  sort  of 
people  lived  in  it,  shall  be  told  in  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  V. 
THE  NUTTER  HOUSE  AND  THE  NUTTER  FAMILY. 

THE  Nutter  House,  —  all  the  more  prominent  dwellings  in  Rivermouth 
are  named  after  somebody ;  for  instance,  there  is  the  Walford  House,  the 
Venner  House,  the  Trefethern  House,  etc.,  though  it  by  no  means  fol 
lows  that  they  are  inhabited  by  the  people  whose  names  they  bear,  —  the 
Nutter  House,  to  resume,  has  been  in  our  family  nearly  a  hundred  years, 
and  is  an  honor  to  the  builder  (an  ancestor  of  ours,  I  believe),  supposing 
durability  to  be  a  merit.  If  our  ancestor  was  a  carpenter,  he  knew  his  trade. 
I  wish  I  knew  mine  as  well.  Such  timber  and  such  workmanship  don't  often 
come  together  in  houses  built  nowadays. 

Imagine  a  low-studded  structure,  with  a  wide  hall  running  through  the 
middle.  At  your  right  hand,  as  you  enter,  stands  a  tall  black  mahogany 
clock,  looking  like  an  Egyptian  mummy  set  up  on  end.  On  each  side  of  the 
hall  are  doors  (whose  knobs,  it  must  be  confessed,  do  not  turn  very  easily), 
opening  into  large  rooms  wainscoted  and  rich  in  wood-carvings  about  the 
mantel-pieces  and  cornices.  The  walls  are  covered  with  pictured  paper,  rep 
resenting  landscapes  and  sea- views.  In  the  parlor,  for  example,  this  en 
livening  figure  is  repeated  all  over  the  room  :  —  A  group  of  English  peasants, 
wearing  Italian  hats,  are  dancing  on  a  lawn  that  abruptly  resolves  itself  into 
a  sea-beach,  upon  which  stands  a  flabby  fisherman  (nationality  unknown), 
quietly  hauling  in  what  appears  to  be  a  small  whale,  and  totally  regardless  of 
the  dreadful  naval  combat  going  on  just  beyond  the  end  of  his  fishing-rod. 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


[February, 


On  the  other  side  of  the  ships  is  the  main-land  again,  with  the  same  peas 
ants  dancing.  Our  ancestors  were  very  worthy  people,  but  their  wall-papers 
were  abominable. 

There  are  neither  grates  nor  stoves  in  these  quaint  chambers,  but  splendid 
open  chimney-places,  with  room  enough  for  the  corpulent  back-log  to  turn 
over  comfortably  on  the  polished  andirons.  A  wide  staircase  leads  from  the 
hall  to  the  second  story,  which  is  arranged  much  like  the  first.  Over  this  is 
the  garret.  I  need  n't  tell  a  New  England  boy  what  a  museum  of  curiosities 
is  the  garret  of  a  well-regulated  New  England  house  of  fifty  or  sixty  years' 
standing.  Here  meet  together,  as  if  by  some  preconcerted  arrangement,  all 
the  broken-down  chairs  of  the  household,  all  the  spavined  tables,  all  the 
seedy  hats,  all  the  intoxicated-looking  boots,  all  the  split  walking-sticks  that 
have  retired  from  business,  "  weary  with  the  march  of  life."  The  pots,  the 
pans,  the  trunks,  the  bottles,  —  who  may  hope  to  make  an  inventory  of  the 
numberless  odds  and  ends  collected  in  this  bewildering  lumber-room  ?  But 
what  a  place  it  is  to  sit  of  an  afternoon  with  the  rain  pattering  on  the  roof! 
what  a  place  in  which  to  read  Gulliver's  Travels,  or  the  famous  adventures 
of  Rinaldo  Rinaldini ! 


My  grandfather's  house  stood  a  little  back  from  the  main  street,  in  the 
shadow  of  two  handsome  elms,  whose  overgrown  boughs  would  dash  them 
selves  against  the  gables  whenever  the  wind  blew  hard.  In  the  rear  was  a 
pleasant  garden,  covering  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  acre,  full  of  purple-plum- 
trees  and  gooseberry-bushes.  These  trees  were  old  settlers,  and  are  all  dead 
now,  excepting  one,  which  bears  a  plum  as  big  as  an  egg.  This  tree,  as  I 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  73 

have  said,  is  still  standing,  and  a  more  beautiful  tree  to  tumble  out  of  never 
grew  anywhere.  In  the  northwestern  corner  of  the  garden  were  the  stables 
and  carriage  house,  opening  upon  a  narrow  lane.  You  may  imagine  that  I 
made  an  early  visit  to  that  locality  to  inspect  Gypsy.  Indeed,  I  paid  her  a 
visit  every  half-hour  during  the  first  day  of  my  arrival.  At  the  twenty-fourth 
visit,  she  trod  on  my  foot  rather  heavily,  as  a  reminder,  probably,  that  I  was 
earing  out  my  welcome.  She  was  a  knowing  little  pony,  that  Gypsy,  and  I 
shall  have  much  to  say  of  her  in  the  course  of  these  pages. 

Gypsy's  quarters  were  very  nice,  but  nothing  among  my  new  surroundings 
gave  me  more  satisfaction  than  the  cosey  sleeping  apartment  that  had  been 

)repared  for  myself.     It  was  the  hall  room  over  the  front  door. 

I  had  never  had  a  chamber  all  to  myself  before,  and  this  one,  about  twice 
the  size  of  our  state-room  on  board  the  Typhoon,  was  a  marvel  of  neatness 
and  comfort.  Pretty  chintz  curtains  hung  at  the  window,  and  a  patch  quilt 

f  more  colors  than  were  in  Jacob's  coat  covered  the  little  truckle-bed.  The 
pattern  of  the  wall-paper  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in  that  line.  On  a  gray 

jackground  were  small  bunches  of  leaves,  unlike  any  that  ever  grew  in  this 
world  ;  and  on  every  other  bunch  perched  a  yellow-bird,  pitted  with  crimson 
spots,  as  if  it  had  just  recovered  from  a  severe  attack  of  the  small-pox.  That 
no  such  bird  ever  existed  did  not  detract  from  my  admiration  of  each  one. 
There  were  two  hundred  and  sixty-eight  of  these  birds  in  all,  not  counting 

hose  split  in  two  where  the  paper  was  badly  joined.  I  counted  them  once 
when  I  was  laid  up  with  a  fine  black  eye,  and,  falling  asleep  immediately 
dreamed  that  the  whole  flock  suddenly  took  wing  and  flew  out  of  the  window. 

"rom  that  time   I  was  never  able  to  regard  them  as  merely  inanimate  ob- 

ects. 
A  wash-stand  in  the  corner,  a  chest  of  carved  mahogany  drawers,  a  look- 

ng-glass  in  a  filigreed  frame,  and  a  high-backed  chair  studded  with  brass 
nails  like  a  coflin,  constituted  the  furniture.  Over  the  head  of  the  bed  were 

wo  oak  shelves,  holding  perhaps  a  dozen  books,  —  among  which  were  Theo 
dore,  or  The  Peruvians  ;  Robinson  Crusoe ;  an  odd  volume  of  Tristram 
Shandy ;  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest ;  and  a  fine  English  edition  of  the  Arabian 

lights,  with  six  hundred  wood-cuts  by  Harvey. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  hour  when  I  first  overhauled  these  books  ?  I  do 
not  allude  especially  to  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest,  which  is  far  from  being  a  lively 
work  for  the  young,  but  to  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  particularly  to  Robin- 

>on  Crusoe.     The  thrill  that  ran  into  my  fingers'  ends  then  has  not  run  out 

ret.  Many  a  time  did  I  steal  up  to  this  nest  of  a  room,  and,  taking  the  dog's- 
eared  volume  from  its  shelf,  glide  off  into  an  enchanted  realm,  where  there 
were  no  lessons  to  get  and  no  boys  to  smash  my  kite.  In  a  lidless  trunk  in 

;he  garret  I  subsequently  unearthed  another  motley  collection  of  novels  and 
romances,  embracing  the  adventures  of  Baron  Trenck,  Jack  Sheppard,  Don 
Quixote,  Gil  Bias,  and  Charlotte  Temple,  —  all  of  which  I  fed  upon  like  a 

Dookworm. 

I  never  come  across  a  copy  of  any  of  those  works  without  feeling  a  certain 
tenderness  for  the  yellow-haired  little  rascal  who  used  to  lean  above  the 


74  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [February, 

magic  pages  hour  after  hour,  religiously  believing  every  word  he  read,  and  no 
more  doubting  the  reality  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  or  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrow 
ful  Countenance,  than  he  did  the  existence  of  his  own  grandfather. 

Against  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  hung  a  single-barrel  shot-gun,  — 
placed  there  by  Grandfather  Nutter,  who  knew  what  a  boy  loved,  if  ever  a 
grandfather  did.  As  the  trigger  of  the  gun  had  been  accidentally  twisted  off, 
it  was  not,  perhaps,  the  most  dangerous  weapon  that  could  be  placed  in  the 
hands  of  youth.  In  this  maimed  condition  its  "  bump  of  destructiveness  " 
was  much  less  than  that  of  my  small  brass  pocket-pistol,  which  I  at  once 
proceeded  to  suspend  from  one  of  the  nails  supporting  the  fowling-piece,  for 
my  vagaries  concerning  the  red  man  had  been  entirely  dispelled. 

Having  introduced  the  reader  to  the  Nutter  House,  a  presentation  to  the 
Nutter  family  naturally  follows.  The  family  consisted  of  my  grandfather  ;  his 
sister,  Miss  Abigail  Nutter ;  and  Kitty  Collins,  the  maid-of-all-work. 

Grandfather  Nutter  was  a  hale,  cheery  old  gentleman,  as  straight  and  as 
bald  as  an  arrow.  He  had  been  a  sailor  in  early  life  ;  that  is  to  say,  at  the 
age  of  ten  he  fled  from  the  multiplication-table,  and  ran  away  to  sea.  A  sin 
gle  voyage  satisfied  him.  There  never  was  but  one  of  our  family  who  didrft 
run  away  to  sea,  and  this  one  died  at  his  birth.  My  grandfather  had  also 
been  a  soldier, — a  captain  of  militia  in  1812.  If  I  owe  the  British  nation 
anything,  I  owe  thanks  to  that  particular  British  soldier  who  put  a  musket- 
ball  into  the  fleshy  part  of  Captain  Nutter's  leg,  causing  that  noble  warrior  a 
slight  permanent  limp,  but  offsetting  the  injury  by  furnishing  him  with  the 
material  for  a  story  which  the  old  gentleman  was  never  weary  of  telling  and 
I  never  weary  of  listening  to.  The  story,  in  brief,  was  as  follows  :  At  the 
breaking  out  of  the  war,  an  English  frigate  lay  for  several  days  off  the  coast 
near  Rivermouth.  A  strong  fort  defended  the  harbor,  and  a  regiment  of 
minute-men,  scattered  at  various  points  along-shore,  stood  ready  to  repel  the 
boats,  should  the  enemy  try  to  effect  a  landing.  Captain  Nutter  had  charge 
of  a  slight  earthwork  just  outside  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Late  one  thick 
night  the  sound  of  oars  was  heard  ;  the  sentinel  tried  to  fire  off  his  gun  at 
half-cock,  and  could  n't,  when  Captain  Nutter  sprung  upon  the  parapet  in  the 
pitch  darkness,  and  shouted,  "  Boat  ahoy  !  "  A  musket-shot  immediately 
embedded  itself  in  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The  Captain  tumbled  into  the  fort, 
and  the  boat,  which  had  probably  come  in  search  of  water,  pulled  back  to  the 
frigate. 

This  was  my  grandfather's  only  exploit  during  the  war.  That  his  prompt 
and  bold  conduct  was  instrumental  in  teaching  the  enemy  the  hopelessness 
of  attempting  to  conquer  such  a  people  was  among  the  firm  beliefs  of  my 
boyhood. 

At  the  time  I  came  to  Rivermouth,  my  grandfather  had  retired  from  active 
pursuits,  and  was  living  at  ease  on  his  money,  invested  principally  in  ship 
ping.  He  had  been  a  widower  many  years  ;  a  maiden  sister,  the  aforesaid 
Miss  Abigail,  managing  his  household.  Miss  Abigail  also  managed  her 
brother,  and  her  brother's  servant,  and  the  visitor  at  her  brother's  gate,  — 
not  in  a  tyrannical  spirit,  but  from  a  philanthropic  desire  to  be  useful  to  every- 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  75 

body.  In  person  she  was  tall  and  angular ;  she  had  a  gray  complexion, 
gray  eyes,  gray  eyebrows,  and  generally  wore  a  gray  dress.  Her  strongest 
weak  point  was  a  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  "  hot  drops  "  as  a  cure  for  all  known 
diseases. 

If  there  were  ever  two  people  who  seemed  to  dislike  each  other,  Miss  Abi 
gail  and  Kitty  Collins  were  those  people.  If  ever  two  people  really  loved 
each  other,  Miss  Abigail  and  Kitty  Collins  were  those  people  also.  They 
were  always  either  skirmishing  or  having  a  cup  of  tea  lovingly  together. 

Miss  Abigail  was  very  fond  of  me,  and  so  was  Kitty ;  and  in  the  course  of 
their  disagreements  each  let  me  into  the  private  history  of  the  other.  Accord 
ing  to  Kitty,  it  was  not  originally  my  grandfather's  intention  to  have  Miss 
Abigail  at  the  head  of  his  domestic  establishment.  She  had  swooped  down 
on  him  (Kitty's  own  words),  with  a  band-box  in  one  hand  and  a  faded  blue 
cotton  umbrella,  still  in  existence,  in  the  other.  Clad  in  this  singular  garb, 
—  I  do  not  remember  that  Kitty  alluded  to  any  additional  peculiarity  of 
dress,  —  Miss  Abigail  had  made  her  appearance  at  the  door  of  the  Nutter 
House  on  the  morning  of  my  grandmother's  funeral.  The  small  amount  of 
baggage  which  the  lady  brought  with  her  would  have  led  the  superficial 
observer  to  infer  that  Miss  Abigail's  visit  was  limited  to  a  few  days.  I  run 
ahead  of  my  story  in  saying  she  remained  seventeen  years  !  How  much 
longer  she  would  have  remained  can  never  be  definitely  known  now,  as  she 
died  at  the  expiration  of  that  period. 

Whether  or  not  my  grandfather  was  quite  pleased  by  this  unlooked-for 
addition  to  his  family  is  a  problem.  He  was  very  kind  always  to  Miss  Abi 
gail,  and  seldom  opposed  her ;  though  I  think  she  must  have  tried  his 
patience  sometimes,  especially  when  she  interfered  with  Kitty. 

Kitty  Collins,  or  Mrs.  Catherine,  as  she  preferred  to  be  called,  was  de 
scended  in  a  direct  line  from  an  extensive  family  of  kings  who  formerly  ruled 
over  Ireland.  In  consequence  of  various  calamities,  among  which  the  fail 
ure  of  the  potato-crop  may  be  mentioned,  Miss  Kitty  Collins,  in  company 
with  several  hundred  of  her  countrymen  and  countrywomen, — also  de 
scended  from  kings,  —  came  over  to  America  in  an  emigrant  ship,  in  the 
year  eighteen  hundred  and  something.  I  don't  know  what  freak  of  fortune 
caused  the  royal  exile  to  turn  up  at  Rivermouth  ;  but  turn  up  she  did,  a  few 
months  after  arriving  in  this  country,  and  was  hired  by  my  grandmother  to 
do  "  general  housework  "  for  the  sum  of  four  shillings  and  sixpence  a  week. 

Kitty  had  been  living  about  seven  years  in  my  grandfather's  family  when 
she  unburdened  her  heart  of  a  secret  which  had  been  weighing  upon  it  all 
that  time.  It  may  be  said  of  people,  as  it  is  said  of  nations,  "  Happy  are 
they  that  have  no  history."  Kitty  had  a  history,  and  a  pathetic  one,  I  think. 

On  board  the  emigrant  ship  that  brought  her  to  America,  she  became 
acquainted  with  a  sailor,  who,  being  touched  by  Kitty's  forlorn  condition,  was 
very  good  to  her.  Long  before  the  end  of  the  voyage,  which  had  been 
tedious  and  perilous,  she  was  heart-broken  at  the  thought  of  separating 
from  her  kindly  protector ;  but  they  were  not  to  part  just  yet,  for  the  sailor 
returned  Kitty's  affection,  and  the  two  were  married  on  their  arrival  at  port. 


76  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [February, 

Kitty's  husband  —  she  would  never  mention  his  name,  but  kept  it  -locked 
in  her  bosom  like  some  precious  relic  —  had  a  considerable  sum  of  money 
when  the  crew  were  paid  off;  and  the  young  couple  — for  Kitty  was  young 
then  —  lived  very  happily  in  a  lodging-house  on  South  Street,  near  the  docks. 
This  was  in  New  York. 

The  days  flew  by  like  hours,  and  the  stocking  in  which  the  little  bride  kept 
the  funds  shrunk  and  shrunk,  until  at  last  there  were  only  three  or  four  dol 
lars  left  in  the  toe  of  it.  Then  Kitty  was  troubled ;  for  she  knew  her  sailor 
would  have  to  go  to  sea  again  unless  he  could  get  employment  on  shore- 
This  he  endeavored  to  do,  but  not  with  much  success.  One  morning  as 
usual  he  kissed  her  good  day,  and  set  out  in  search  of  work. 

"  Kissed  me  good  by,  and  called  me  his  little  Irish  lass,"  sobbed  Kitty,  tell 
ing  the  story,  — "  kissed  me  good  by,  and,  Heaven  help  me !  I  never  set 
eye  on  him  nor  on  the  likes  of  him  again  !  " 

He  never  came  back.  Day  after  day  dragged  on,  night  after  night,  and 
then  the  weary  weeks.  What  had  become  of  him  ?  Had  he  been  murdered  ? 
had  he  fallen  into  the  docks  ?  had  he  —  deserted  her?  No  !  she  could  not 
believe  that ;  he  was  too  brave  and  tender  and  true.  She  could  n't  believe 
that.  He  was  dead,  dead,  or  he  'd  come  back  to  her. 

Meanwhile  the  landlord  of  the  lodging-house  turned  Kitty  into  the  streets, 
now  that  "  her  man  "  was  gone,  and  the  payment  of  the  rent  doubtful.  She 
got  a  place  as  a  servant.  The  family  she  lived  with  shortly  moved  to  Boston, 
and  she  accompanied  them  ;  then  they  went  abroad,  but  Kitty  would  not 
leave  America.  Somehow  she  drifted  to  Rivermouth,  and  for  seven  long 
years  never  gave  speech  to  her  sorrow,  until  the  kindness  of  strangers,  who 
had  become  friends  to  her,  unsealed  the  heroic  lips. 

Kitty's  story,  you  may  be  sure,  made  my  grandparents  treat  her  more 
kindly  than  ever.  In  time  she  grew  to  be  regarded  less  as  a  servant  than  as 
a  friend  in  the  home  circle,  sharing  its  joys  and  sorrows,  —  a  faithful  nurse, 
a  willing  slave,  a  happy  spirit  in  spite  of  all.  I  fancy  I  hear  her  singing  over 
her  work  in  the  kitchen,  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  make  some  witty  reply 
to  Miss  Abigail,  —  for  Kitty,  like  all  her  race,  had  a  vein  of  unconscious 
humor.  Her  bright  honest  face  comes  to  me  out  from  the  past,  the  light  and 
life  of  the  Nutter  House  when  I  was  a  boy  at  Rivermouth. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


MARCH,    1869. 


No.  III. 


dropping  off  into  a  doze 
homesickness  at  intervals 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  VI. 

LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS. 


HE  first  shadow  that  fell  upon  me  in  my  new 
home  was  caused  by  the  return  of  my  parents 
to  New  Orleans.  Their  visit  was  cut  short  by 
business  which  required  my  father's  presence 
in  Natchez,  where  he  was  establishing  a  branch 
of  the  banking-house.  When  they  had  gone,  a 
sense  of  loneliness  such  as  I  had  never  dreamed 
of  filled  my  young  breast.  I  crept  away  to  the 
stable,  and,  throwing  my  arms  about  Gypsy's 
neck,  sobbed  aloud.  She  too  had  come  from 
the  sunny  South,  and  was  now  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.  The  little  mare  seemed  to  real 
ize  our  situation,  and  gave  me  all  the  sympathy 
I  could  ask,  repeatedly  rubbing  her  soft  nose 
over  my  face  and  lapping  up  my  salt  tears  with 
evident  relish. 

When  night  came,  I  felt  still  more  lonesome. 
My  grandfather  sat  in  his  arm-chair  the  greater 
part  of  the  evening,  reading  the  "  Rivermouth 
Barnacle,"  the  local  newspaper.  There  was  no 
gas  in  those  days,  and  the  Captain  read  by  the 
aid  of  a  small  block-tin  lamp,  which  he  held  in 
one  hand.  I  observed  that  he  had  a  habit  of 

every  three  or  four  minutes,  and  I  forgot  my 
in  watching  him.  Two  or  three  times,  to  my 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.   III.  10 


138  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [March, 

vast  amusement,  he  scorched  the  edges  of  the  newspaper  with  the  wick  of 
the  lamp  ;  and  at  about  half  past  eight  o'clock  I  had  the  satisfaction —  I  am 
sorry  to  confess  it  was  a  satisfaction  —  of  seeing  the  "  Rivermouth  Barna 
cle  "  in  flames. 

My  grandfather  leisurely  extinguished  the  fire  with  his  hands,  and  Miss 
Abigail,  who  sat  near  a  low  table,  knitting  by  the  light  of  an  astral  lamp,  did 
not  even  look  up.  She  was  quite  used  to  this  catastrophe. 

There  was  little  or  no  conversation  during  the  evening.  In  fact,  I  do  not 
remember  that  any  one  spoke  at  all,  excepting  once,  when  the  Captain  re 
marked,  in  a  meditative  manner,  that  my  parents  "  must  have  reached  New 
York  by  this  time "  ;  at  which  supposition  I  nearly  strangled  myself  in 
attempting  to  intercept  a  sob. 

The  monotonous  "  click  click  "  of  Miss  Abigail's  needles  made  me  nervous 
after  a  while,  and  finally  drove  me  out  of  the  sitting-room  into  the  kitchen, 
where  Kitty  caused  me  to  laugh  by  saying  Miss  Abigail  thought  that  what  I 
needed  was  "  a  good  dose  of  hot-drops,"  —  a  remedy  she  was  forever  ready 
to  administer  in  all  emergencies.  If  a  boy  broke  his  leg,  or  lost  his  mother, 
I  believe  Miss  Abigail  would  have  given  him  hot-drops. 

Kitty  laid  herself  out  to  be  entertaining.  She  told  me  several  funny  Irish 
stories,  and  described  some  of  the  odd  people  living  in  the  town  ;  but,  in  the 
midst  of  her  comicalities,  the  tears  would  involuntarily  ooze  out  of  my  eyes, 
though  I  was  not  a  lad  much  addicted  to  weeping.  Then  Kitty  would  put  her 
arms  around  me,  and  tell  me  not  to  mind  it,  —  that  it  was  n't  as  if  I  had  been 
left  alone  in  a  foreign  land  with  no  one  to  care  for  me,  like  a  poor  girl  whom 
she  had  once  known.  I  brightened  up  before  long,  and  told  Kitty  all  about 
the  Typhoon  and  the  old  seaman,  whose  name  I  tried  in  vain  to  recall,  and 
was  obliged  to  fall  back  on  plain  Sailor  Ben. 

I  was  glad  when  ten  o'clock  came,  the  bedtime  for  young  folks,  and 
old  folks  too,  at  the  Nutter  House.  Alone  in  the  hall-chamber  I  had  my 
cry  out,  once  for  all,  moistening  the  pillow  to  such  an  extent  that  I  was 
obliged  to  turn  it  over  to  find  a  dry  spot  to  go  to  sleep  on. 

My  grandfather  wisely  concluded  to  put  me  to  school  at  once.  If  I  had 
been  permitted  to  go  mooning  about  the  house  and  stables  I  should  have 
kept  my  discontent  alive  for  months.  The  next  morning,  accordingly,  he 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and  we  set  forth  for  the  academy,  which  was  located  at 
the  further  end  of  the  town. 

The  Temple  School  was  a  two-story  brick  building,  standing  in  the  centre 
of  a  great  square  piece  of  land,  surrounded  by  a  high  picket  fence.  There 
were  three  or  four  sickly  trees,  but  no  grass,  in  this  enclosure,  which  had  been 
worn  smooth  and  hard  by  the  tread  of  multitudinous  feet.  I  noticed  here 
and  there  small  holes  scooped  in  the  ground,  indicating  that  it  was  the  season 
for  marbles.  A  better  playground  for  base-ball  could  n't  have  been  devised. 

On  reaching  the  school-house  door,  the  Captain  inquired  for  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw.  The  boy  who  answered  our  knock  ushered  us  into  a  side-room,  and 
in  a  few  minutes — during  which  my  eye  took  in  forty-two  caps  hung  on 
forty-two  wooden  pegs  —  Mr.  Grimshaw  made  his  appearance.  He  was  a 


1 869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  1 39 

slender  man,  with  white,  fragile  hands,  and  eyes  that  glanced  half  a  dozen 
different  ways  at  once,  —  a  habit  probably  acquired  from  watching  the  boys. 
After  a  brief  consultation,  my  grandfather  patted  me  on  the  head  and  left 
me  in  charge  of  this  gentleman,  who  seated  himself  in  front  of  me  and  pro 
ceeded  to  sound  the  depth,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  the  shallowness,  of 
my  attainments.  I  suspect  my  historical  information  rather  startled  him. 
I  recollect  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  Richard  III.  was  the  last  king  of 
England. 

This  ordeal  over,  Mr.  Grimshaw  rose  and  bade  me  follow  him.  A  door 
opened,  and  I  stood  in  the  blaze  of  forty-two  pairs  of  upturned  eyes.  I  was 
a  cool  hand  for  my  age,  but  I  lacked  the  boldness  to  face  this  battery  with 
out  wincing.  In  a  sort  of  dazed  way  I  stumbled  after  Mr.  Grimshaw  down  a 
narrow  aisle  between  two  rows  of  desks,  and  shyly  took  the  seat  pointed  out 
to  me. 

The  faint  buzz  that  had  floated  over  the  school-room  at  our  entrance  died 
away,  and  the  interrupted  lessons  were  resumed.  By  degrees  I  recovered 
my  coolness,  and  ventured  to  look  around  me.  The  owners  of  the  forty-two 
caps  were  seated  at  small  green  desks  like  the  one  assigned  to  me.  The 
desks  were  arranged  in  six  rows,  with  spaces  between  just  wide  enough  to 
prevent  the  boys'  whispering.  A  blackboard  set  into  the  wall  extended  clear 
across  the  end  of  the  room ;  on  a  raised  platform  near  the  door  stood  the 
master's  table  ;  and  directly  in  front  of  this  was  a  recitation-bench  capable 
of  seating  fifteen  or  twenty  pupils.  A  pair  of  globes,  tattooed  with  dragons 
and  winged  horses,  occupied  a  shelf  between  two  windows,  which  were  so 
high  from  the  floor  that  nothing  but  a  giraffe  could  have  looked  out  of  them. 
Having  possessed  myself  of  these  details,  I  scrutinized  my  new  acquaint 
ances  with  unconcealed  curiosity,  instinctively  selecting  my  friends  and  pick 
ing  out  my  enemies,  —  and  in  only  two  cases  did  I  mistake  my  man. 

A  sallow  boy  with  bright  red  hair,  sitting  in  the  fourth  row,  shook  his  fist 
at  me  furtively  several  times  during  the  morning.  I  had  a  presentiment  I 
should  have  trouble  with  that  boy  some  day,  —  a  presentiment  subsequently 
realized. 

On  my  left  was  a  chubby  little  fellow  with  a  great  many  freckles  (this  was 
Pepper  Whitcomb),  who  made  some  mysterious  motions  to  me.  I  did  n't 
understand  them,  but,  as  they  were  clearly  of  a  pacific  nature,  I  winked  my 
eye  at  him.  This  appeared  to  be  satisfactory,  for  he  then  went  on  with  his 
studies.  At  recess  he  gave  me  the  core  of  his  apple,  though  there  were  sev 
eral  applicants  for  it. 

Presently  a  boy  in  a  loose  olive-green  jacket  with  two  rows  of  brass  but 
tons  held  up  a  folded  paper  behind  his  slate,  intimating  that  it  was  intended 
for  me.  The  paper  was  passed  skilfully  from  desk  to  desk  until  it  reached 
my  hands.  On  opening  the  scrap,  I  found  that  it  contained  a  small  piece  of 
molasses  candy  in  an  extremely  humid  state.  This  was  certainly  kind.  I 
nodded  my  acknowledgments  and  hastily  slipped  the  delicacy  into  my 
mouth.  In  a  second  I  felt  my  tongue  grow  red-hot  with  cayenne  pepper. 
My  face  must  have  assumed  a  comical  expression,  for  the  boy  in  the  olive- 


140  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [March, 

green  jacket  gave  an  hysterical  laugh,  for  which  he  was  instantly  punished  by 
Mr.  Grimshaw.  I  swallowed  the  fiery  candy,  though  it  brought  the  water  to 
my  eyes,  and  managed  to  look  so  unconcerned  that  I  was  the  only  pupil  in 
the  form  who  escaped  questioning  as  to  the  cause  of  Marden's  misdemeanor. 
C.  Harden  was  his  name. 

At  recess  several  of  the  scholars  came  to  my  desk  and  shook  hands  with 
me,  Mr.  Grimshaw  having  previously  introduced  me  to  Phil  Adams,  charg 
ing  him  to  see  that  I  got  into  no  trouble.  My  new  acquaintances  suggested 
that  we  should  adjourn  to  the  playground.  We  were  no  sooner  out  of  doors 
than  the  boy  with  the  red  hair  thrust  his  way  through  the  crowd  and  placed 
himself  at  my  side. 

"  I  say,  youngster,  if  you  ire  comin'  to  this  school  you  've  got  to  toe  the 
mark." 

I  did  n't  see  any  mark  to  toe,  and  did  n't  understand  what  he  meant ; 
but  I  replied  politely,  that,  if  it  was  the  custom  of  the  school,  I  should  be 
happy  to  toe  the  mark  if  he  would  point  it  out  to  me. 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  sarse,"  said  the  boy,  scowling. 

"  Look  here,  Con  way  !  "  cried  a  clear  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  play 
ground,  "  you  let  young  Bailey  alone.  He  's  a  stranger  here,  and  might  be 
afraid  of  you,  and  thrash  you.  Why  do  you  always  throw  yourself  in  the 
way  of  getting  thrashed  ?  " 

I  turned  to  the  speaker,  who  by  this  time  had  reached  the  spot  where  we 
stood.  Conway  slunk  off,  favoring  me  with  a  parting  scowl  of  defiance.  I 
gave  my  hand  to  the  boy  who  had  befriended  me, —  his  name  was  Jack  Har 
ris,  —  and  thanked  him  for  his  good-will. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Bailey,"  he  said,  returning  my  pressure  good- 
naturedly,  "  you  '11  have  to  fight  Conway  before  the  quarter  ends,  or  you  '11 
have  no  rest.  That  fellow  is  always  hankering  after  a  licking,  and  of  course 
you  '11  give  him  one  by  and  by ;  but  what 's  the  use  of  hurrying  up  an  un 
pleasant  job  ?  Let 's  have  some  base-ball.  By  the  way,  Bailey,  you  were  a 
good  kid  not  to  let  on  to  Grimshaw  about  that  candy.  Charley  Marden 
would  have  caught  it  twice  as  heavy.  He  's  sorry  he  played  the  joke  on  you, 
and  told  me  to  tell  you  so.  Hallo,  Blake  !  where  are  the  bats  ?  " 

This  was  addressed  to  a  handsome,  frank-looking  lad  of  about  my  own 
age,  who  was  engaged  just  then  in  cutting  his  initials  on  the  bark  of  a  tree 
near  the  school-house.  Blake  shut  up  his  penknife  and  went  off  to  get  the 
bats. 

During  the  game  which  ensued  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Charley  Mar- 
den,  Binny  Wallace,  Pepper  Whitcomb,  Harry  Blake,  and  Fred  Langdon. 
These  boys,  none  of  them  more  than  a  year  or  two  older  than  I  (Binny  Wal 
lace  was  younger),  were  ever  after  my  chosen  comrades.  Phil  Adams  and 
Jack  Harris  were  considerably  our  seniors,  and,  though  they  always  treated 
us  "  kids  "  very  kindly,  they  generally  went  with  another  set.  Of  course, 
before  long  I  knew  all  the  Temple  boys  more  or  less  intimately,  but  the  five 
I  have  named  were  my  constant  companions. 

My  first  day  at  the  Temple  Grammar  School  was  on  the  whole  satisfac- 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  141 

tory.  I  had  made  several  warm  friends  and  only  two  permanent  enemies,  — 
Conway  and  his  echo,  Seth  Rodgers ;  for  these  two  always  went  together, 
like  a  deranged  stomach  and  a  headache. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week  I  had  my  studies  well  in  hand.  I  was  a  little 
ashamed  at  finding  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  various  classes,  and  secretly  de 
termined  to  deserve  promotion.  The  school  was  an  admirable  one.  I  might 
make  this  part  of  my  story  more  entertaining  by  picturing  Mr.  Grimshaw  as 
a  tyrant  with  a  red  nose  and  a  large  stick  ;  but,  unfortunately  for  the  purposes 
of  sensational  narrative,  Mr.  Grimshaw  was  a  quiet,  kind-hearted  gentleman. 
Though  a  rigid  disciplinarian,  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  justice,  was  a  good 
reader  of  character,  and  the  boys  respected  him.  There  were  two  other 
teachers,  —  a  French  tutor,  and  a  writing-master,  who  visited  the  school  twice 
a  week.  On  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays  we  were  dismissed  at  noon,  and 
these  half-holidays  were  the  brightest  epochs  of  my  existence. 

Daily  contact  with  boys  who  had  not  been  brought  up  as  gently  as  I 
worked  an  immediate,  and,  in  some  respects,  a  beneficial  change  in  my  char 
acter.  I  had  the  nonsense  taken  out  of  me,  as  the  saying  is,  —  some  of  the 
nonsense,  at  least.  I  became  more  manly  and  self-reliant.  I  discovered  that 
the  world  was  not  created  exclusively  on  my  account.  In  New  Orleans  I 
labored  under  the  delusion  that  it  was.  Having  neither  brother  nor  sister  to 
give  up  to  at  home,  and  being,  moreover,  the  largest  pupil  at  school  there, 
my  will  had  seldom  been  opposed.  At  Rivermouth  matters  were  different, 
and  I  was  not  long  in  adapting  myself  to  the  altered  circumstances.  Of 
course  I  got  many  severe  rubs,  often  unconsciously  given ;  but  I  had  the 
sense  to  see  that  I  was  all  the  better  for  them. 

My  social  relations  with  my  new  schoolfellows  were  the  pleasantest  possi 
ble.  There  was  always  some  exciting  excursion  on  foot,  —  a  ramble  through 
the  pine  woods,  a  visit  to  the  Devil's  Pulpit,  a  high  cliff  in  the  neighborhood, 
—  or  a  surreptitious  row  on  the  river,  involving  an  exploration  of  a  group  of 
diminutive  islands,  upon  one  of  which  we  pitched  a  tent  and  played  we  were 
the  Spanish  sailors  who  got  wrecked  there  years  ago.  But  the  endless  pine 
forest  that  skirted  the  town  was  our  favorite  haunt.  There  was  a  great  green 
pond  hidden  somewhere  in  its  depths,  inhabited  by  a  monstrous  colony  of 
turtles.  Harry  Blake,  who  had  an  eccentric  passion  for  carving  his  name  on 
everything,  never  let  a  captured  turtle  slip  though  his  fingers  without  leaving 
his  mark  engraved  on  its  shell.  He  must  have  lettered  about  two  thousand 
from  first  to  last.  We  used  to  call  them  Harry  Blake's  sheep.  These  tur 
tles  were  of  a  discontented  and  migratory  turn  of  mind,  and  we  frequently 
encountered  two  or  three  of  them  on  the  cross-roads  several  miles  from  their 
ancestral  mud.  Unspeakable  was  our  delight  whenever  we  discovered  one 
soberly  walking  off  with  Harry  Blake's  initials  !  I  've  no  doubt  there  are, 
at  this  moment,  fat  ancient  turtles  wandering  about  that  gummy  woodland 
with  H.  B.  neatly  cut  on  their  venerable  backs. 

It  soon  became  a  custom  among  my  playmates  to  make  our  barn  their  ren 
dezvous.  Gypsy  proved  a  strong  attraction.  Captain  Nutter  bought  me  a 


142  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [March, 

little  two-wheeled  cart,  which  she  drew  quite  nicely,  after  kicking  out  the 
dasher  and  breaking  the  shafts  once  or  twice.  With  our  lunch-baskets  and 
fishing-tackle  stowed  away  under  the  seat,  we  used  to  start  off  early  in  the 
afternoon  for  the  sea-shore,  where  there  were  countless  marvels  in  the  shape 
of  shells,  mosses,  and  kelp.  Gypsy  enjoyed  the  sport  as  keenly  as  any  of  us, 
even  going  so  far,  one  day,  as  to  trot  down  the  beach  into  the  sea  where  we 
were  bathing.  As  she  took  the  cart  with  her,  our  provisions  were  not  much 
improved.  I  shall  never  forget  how  squash-pie  tastes  after  being  soused  in 
the  Atlantic  Ocean.  Soda-crackers  dipped  in  salt  water  are  palatable,  but 
not  squash-pie. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  wet  weather  during  those  first  six  weeks  at  Riv- 
ermouth,  and  we  set  ourselves  at  work  to  find  some  in-door  amusement  for 
our  half-holidays.  If  was  all  very  well  for  Amadis  de  Gaul  and  Don  Quixote 
not  to  mind  the  rain  ;  they  had  iron  overcoats,  and  were  not,  from  all  we  can 
learn,  subject  to  croup  and  the  guidance  of  their  grandfathers.  Our  case 
was  different. 

"  Now,  boys,  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  I  asked,  addressing  a  thoughtful  con 
clave  of  seven,  assembled  in  our  barn  one  dismal  rainy  afternoon. 

"  Let 's  have  a  theatre,"  suggested  Binny  Wallace. 

The  very  thing  !  But  where  ?  The  loft  of  the  stable  was  ready  to  burst 
with  hay  provided  for  Gypsy,  but  the  long  room  over  the  carriage-house  was 
unoccupied.  The  place  of  all  places  !  My  managerial  eye  saw  at  a  glance 
its  capabilities  for  a  theatre.  I  had  been  to  the  play  a  great  many  times  in 
New  Orleans,  and  was  wise  in  matters  pertaining  to  the  drama.  So  here,  in 
due  time,  was  set  up  some  extraordinary  scenery  of  my  own  painting.  The 
curtain,  I  recollect,  though  it  worked  smoothly  enough  on  other  occasions, 
invariably  hitched  during  the  performances  ;  and  it  often  required  the  united 
energies  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark,  the  King,  and  the  Grave-digger,  with  an 
occasional  hand  from  "  the  fair  Ophelia  "  (Pepper  Whitcomb  in  a  low-necked 
dress),  to  hoist  that  bit  of  green  cambric. 

The  theatre,  however,  was  a  success,  as  far  as  it  went  I  retired  from  the 
business  with  no  fewer  than  fifteen  hundred  pins,  after  deducting  the  head 
less,  the  pointless,  and  the  crooked  pins  with  which  our  doorkeeper  frequently 
got  "  stuck."  From  first  to  last  we  took  in  a  great  deal  of  this  counterfeit 
money.  The  price  of  admission  to  the  "  Rivermouth  Theatre  "  was  twenty 
pins.  I  played  all  the  principal  parts  myself,  —  not  that  I  was  a  finer  actor 
than  the  other  boys,  but  because  I  owned  the  establishment. 

At  the  tenth  representation,  my  dramatic  career  was  brought  to  a  close  by 
an  unfortunate  circumstance.  We  were  playing  the  drama  of  "  William  Tell, 
the  Hero  of  Switzerland."  Of  course  I  was  William  Tell,  in  spite  of  Fred 
Langdon,  who  wanted  to  act  that  character  himself.  I  would  n't  let  him,  so 
he  withdrew  from  the  company,  taking  the  only  bow  and  arrow  we  had.  I 
made  a  cross-bow  out  of  a  piece  of  whalebone,  and  did  very  well  without  him. 
We  had  reached  that  exciting  scene  where  Gessler,  the  Austrian  tyrant, 
commands  Tell  to  shoot  the  apple  from  his  son's  head.  Pepper  Whitcomb, 
who  played  all  the  juvenile  and  women  parts,  was  my  son.  To  guard  against 


i869.] 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy, 


mischance,  a  piece  of  pasteboard  was  fastened  by  a  handkerchief  over  the  up 
per  portion  of  Whitcomb's  face,  while  the  arrow  to  be  used  was  sewed  up  in 
a  strip  of  flannel.  I  was  a  capital  marksman,  and  the  big  apple,  only  two 
yards  distant,  turned  its  russet  cheek  fairly  towards  me. 

I  can  see  poor  little  Pepper  now,  as  he  stood  without  flinching,  waiting  for 
me  to  perform  my  great  feat.  I  raised  the  cross-bow  amid  the  breathless 
silence  of  the  crowded  audience,  —  consisting  of  seven  boys  and  three  girls, 
exclusive  of  Kitty  Collins,  who  insisted  on  paying  her  way  in  with  a  clothes 
pin.  I  raised  the  cross-bow,  I  repeat.  Twang  !  went  the  whipcord ;  but, 
alas !  instead  of  hitting  the  apple,  the  arrow  flew  right  into  Pepper  Whit- 
comb's  mouth,  which  happened  to  be  open  at  the  time,  and  destroyed  my 
aim. 


I  shall  never  be  able  to  banish  that  awful  moment  from  my  memory.  Pep 
per's  roar,  expressive  of  astonishment,  indignation,  and  pain,  is  still  ringing  in 
my  ears.  I  looked  upon  him  as  a  corpse,  and,  glancing  not  far  into  the  dreary 
future,  pictured  myself  led  forth  to  execution  in  the  presence  of  the  very 
same  spectators  then  assembled. 

Luckily  poor  Pepper  was  not  seriously  hurt ;  but  Grandfather  Nutter, 
appearing  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  (attracted  by  the  howls  of  young 


144  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [March, 

Tell),  issued  an  injunction  against  all  theatricals  thereafter,  and  the  place  was 
closed ;  not,  however,  without  a  farewell  speech  from  me,  in  which  I  said 
that  this  would  have  been  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life  if  I  had  n't  hit 
Pepper  Whitcomb  in  the  mouth.  Whereupon  the  audience  (assisted,  I  am 
glad  to  state,  by  Pepper)  cried  "  Hear  !  hear  ! "  I  then  attributed  the  acci 
dent  to  Pepper  himself,  whose  mouth,  being  open  at  the  instant  I  fired,  acted 
upon  the  arrow  much  after  the  fashion  of  a  whirlpool,  and  drew  in  the  fatal 
shaft.  I  was  about  to  explain  how  a  comparatively  small  maelstrom  could 
suck  in  the  largest  ship,  when  the  curtain  fell  of  its  own  accord,  amid  the 
shouts  of  the  audience. 

This  was  my  last  appearance  on  any  stage.  It  was  some  time,  though,  be 
fore  I  heard  the  end  of  the  William  Tell  business.  Malicious  little  boys  who 
had  n't  been  allowed  to  buy  tickets  to  my  theatre  used  to  cry  out  after  me  in 
the  street,  - 

"  '  Who  killed  Cock  Robin  ?  ' 
'  I,'  said  the  sparrer, 
'With  my  bow  and  arrer, 
I  killed  Cock  Robin  1  ' " 

The  sarcasm  of  this  verse  was  more  than  I  could  stand.  And  it  made  Pep 
per  Whitcomb  pretty  mad  to  be  called  Cock  Robin,  I  can  tell  you  ! 

So  the  days  glided  on,  with  fewer  clouds  and  more  sunshine  than  fall  to 
the  lot  of  most  boys.  Conway  was  certainly  a  cloud.  Within  school-bounds 
he  seldom  ventured  to  be  aggressive  ;  but  whenever  we  met  about  town  he 
never  failed  to  brush  against  me,  or  pull  my  cap  over  my  eyes,  or  drive  me 
distracted  by  inquiring  after  my  family  in  New  Orleans,  always  alluding  to 
them  as  highly  respectable  colored  people. 

Jack  Harris  was  right  when  he  said  Conway  would  give  me  no  rest  until  I 
fought  him.  I  felt  it  was  ordained  ages  before  our  birth  that  we  should  meet 
on  this  planet  and  fight.  With  the  view  of  not  running  counter  to  destiny,  I 
quietly  prepared  myself  for  the  impending  conflict.  The  scene  of  my  dra 
matic  triumphs  was  turned  into  a  gymnasium  for  this  purpose,  though  I  did 
not  openly  avow  the  fact  to  the  boys.  By  persistently  standing  on  my  head, 
raising  heavy  weights,  and  going  hand  over  hand  up  a  ladder,  I  developed 
my  muscle  until  my  little  body  was  as  tough  as  a  hickory  knot  and  as  supple 
as  tripe.  I  also  took  occasional  lessons  in  the  noble  art  of  self-defence,  un 
der  the  tuition  of  Phil  Adams. 

I  brooded  over  the  matter  until  the  idea  of  fighting  Conway  became  a  part 
of  me.  I  fought  him  in  imagination  during  school-hours  ;  I  dreamed  of 
fighting  with  him  at  night,  when  he  would  suddenly  expand  into  a  giant 
twelve  feet  high,  and  then  as  suddenly  shrink  into  a  pygmy  so  small  that  I 
could  n't  hit  him.  In  this  latter  shape  he  would  get  into  my  hair,  or  pop 
into  my  waistcoat-pocket,  treating  me  with  as  little  ceremony  as  the  Lili- 
putians  showed  Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver,  —  all  of  which  was  not  pleasant, 
to  be  sure.  On  the  whole,  Conway  was  a  cloud. 

And  then  I  had  a  cloud  at  home.  It  was  not  Grandfather  Nutter,  nor  Miss 
Abigail,  nor  Kitty  Collins,  though  they  all  helped  to  compose  it.  It  was  a 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  145 

vague,  funereal,  impalpable  something  which  no  amount  of  gymnastic  train 
ing  would  enable  me  to  knock  over.  It  was  Sunday.  If  ever  I  have  a  boy 
to  bring  up  in  the  way  he  should  go,  I  intend  to  make  Sunday  a  cheerful  day 
to  him.  Sunday  was  not  a  cheerful  day  at  the  Nutter  House.  You  shall 
judge  for  yourself. 

It  is  Sunday  morning.  I  should  premise  by  saying  that  the  deep  gloom 
which  has  settled  over  everything  set  in  like  a  heavy  fog  early  on  Saturday 
evening. 

At  seven  o'clock  my  grandfather  comes  smilelessly  down  stairs.  He  is 
dressed  in  black,  and  looks  as  if  he  had  lost  all  his  friends  during  the  night. 
Miss  Abigail,  also  in  black,  looks  as  if  she  were  prepared  to  bury  them,  and 
not  indisposed  to  enjoy  the  ceremony.  Even  Kitty  Collins  has  caught  the 
contagious  gloom,  as  I  perceive  when  she  brings  in  the  coffee-urn,  —  a  sol 
emn  and  sculpturesque  urn  at  any  time,  but  monumental  now,  —  and  sets  it 
down  in  front  of  Miss  Abigail.  Miss  Abigail  gazes  at  the  urn  as  if  it  held 
the  ashes  of  her  ancestors,  instead  of  a  generous  quantity  of  fine  old  Java 
coffee.  The  meal  progresses  in  silence. 

Our  parlor  is  by  no  means  thrown  open  every  day.  It  is  open  this  June 
morning,  and  is  pervaded  by  a  strong  smell  of  centre-table.  The  furniture 
of  the  room,  and  the  little  China  ornaments  on  the  mantel-piece,  have  a  con 
strained,  unfamiliar  look.  My  grandfather  sits  in  a  mahogany  chair,  reading 
a  large  Bible  covered  with  green  baize.  Miss  Abigail  occupies  one  end  of 
the  sofa,  and  has  her  hands  crossed  stiffly  in  her  lap.  I  sit  in  the  corner, 
crushed.  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Gil  Bias  are  in  close  confinement.  Baron 
Trenck,  who  managed  to  escape  from  the  fortress  of  Glatz,  can't  for  the  life 
of  him  get  out  of  our  sitting-room  closet.  Even  the  "  Rivermouth  Bar 
nacle  "  is  suppressed  until  Monday.  Genial  converse,  harmless  books, 
smiles,  lightsome  hearts,  all  are  banished.  If  I  want  to  read  anything, 
I  can  read  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest.  I  would  die  first.  So  I  sit  there  kicking 
my  heels,  thinking  about  New  Orleans,  and  watching  a  morbid  blue-bottle 
fly  that  attempts  to  commit  suicide  by  butting  his  head  against  the  window- 
pane.  Listen!  —  no,  yes, —  it  is  —  it  is  the  robins  singing  in  the  garden, 
—  the  grateful,  joyous  robins  singing  away  like  mad,  just  as  if  it  was  n't 
Sunday.  Their  audacity  tickles  me. 

My  grandfather  looks  up,  and  inquires  in  a  sepulchral  voice  if  I  am  ready 
for  Sabbath-school.  It  is  time  to  go.  I  like  the  Sabbath-school ;  there  are 
bright  young  faces  there,  at  all  events.  When  I  get  out  into  the  sunshine 
alone,  I  draw  a  long  breath  ;  I  would  turn  a  somersault  up  against  Neighbor 
Penhallow's  newly  painted  fence  if  I  had  n't  my  best  trousers  on,  so  glad  am 
I  to  escape  from  the  oppressive  atmosphere  of  the  Nutter  House. 

Sabbath-school  over,  I  go  to  meeting,  joining  my  grandfather,  who  does  n't 
appear  to  be  any  relation  to  me  this  day,  and  Miss  Abigail,  in  the  porch. 
Our  minister  holds  out  very  little  hope  to  any  of  us  of  being  saved.  Con 
vinced  that  I  am  a  lost  creature,  in  common  with  the  human  family,  I  return 
home  behind  my  guardians  at  a  snail's  pace.  We  have  a  dead  cold  dinner. 
I  saw  it  laid  out  yesterday. 


146 


Three  in  a  Bed? 


[March, 


There  is  a  long  interval  between  this  repast  and  the  second  service,  and  a 
still  longer  interval  between  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  that  service  ;  for 
the  Rev.  Wibird  Hawkins's  sermons  are  none  of  the  shortest,  whatever  else 
they  may  be. 

After  meeting,  my  grandfather  and  I  take  a  walk.  We  visit  —  appropri 
ately  enough  —  a  neighboring  graveyard.  I  am  by  this  time  in  a  condition 
of  mind  to  become  a  willing  inmate  of  the  place.  The  usual  evening  prayer- 
meeting  is  postponed  for  some  reason.  At  half  past  eight  I  go  to  bed. 

This  is  the  way  Sunday  was  observed  in  the  Nutter  House,  and  pretty 
generally  throughout  the  town,  twenty  years  ago.  People  who  were  pros 
perous  and  natural  and  happy  on  Saturday  became  the  most  rueful  of  human 
beings  in  the  brief  space  of  twelve  hours.  I  don't  think  there  was  any  hypoc 
risy  in  this.  It  was  merely  the  old  Puritan  austerity  cropping  out  once  a 
week.  Many  of  these  people  were  pure  Christians  every  day  in  the  seven, 
—  excepting  the  seventh.  Then  they  were  decorous  and  solemn  to  the 
verge  of  moroseness.  I  should  not  like  to  be  misunderstood  on  this  point. 
Sunday  is  a  blessed  day,  and  therefore  it  should  not  be  made  a  gloomy  one. 
It  is  the  Lord's  day,  and  I  do  believe  that  cheerful  hearts  and  faces  are  not 
unpleasant  in  His  sight. 

"  O  day  of  rest  !     How  beautiful,  how  fair, 
How  welcome  to  the  weary  and  the  old  ! 
Day  of  the  Lord  !  and  truce  to  earthly  cares  ! 
Day  of  the  Lord,  as  all  our  days  should  be  ! 
Ah,  why  will  man  by  his  austerities 
Shut  out  the  blessed  sunshine  and  the  light, 
And  make  of  thee  a  dungeon  of  despair  !  " 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


THREE    IN    A    BED." 


GAY  little  velvet  coats, 
One,  two,  three  ! 
Any  home  happier 
Could  there  be  ? 
Topsey  and  Johnny 
And  sleepy  Ned, 
Purring  so  cosily, 
Three  in  a  bed  ! 

Woe  to  the  stupid  mouse 

Prowling  about  ! 
Old  Mother  Pussy 

Is  on  the  lookout. 


Little  cats,  big  cats, 

All  must  be  fed, 
In  the  sky-parlor, 

Three  in  a  bed  ! 

Mother's  a  gypsy  puss, — 

Often  she  moves, 
Thinking  much  travel 

Her  children  improves. 
High-minded  family, 

Very  well  bred  ; 
No  falling  out,  you  see  ! 

Three  in  a  bed  I 

George  Cooper. 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


APRIL,    1869. 


No.  IV. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  VII. 


ONE   MEMORABLE   NIGHT. 


WO  months  had  elapsed  since  my  arrival  at  River- 
mouth,  when  the  approach  of  an  important  cele 
bration  produced  the  greatest  excitement  among 
the  juvenile  population  of  the  town. 

There  was  very  little  hard  study  done  in  the 
Temple  Grammar  School  the  week  preceding  the 
Fourth  of  July.  For  my  part,  my  heart  and  brain 
were  so  full  of  fire-crackers,  Roman-candles,  rock 
ets,  pin-wheels,  squibs,  and  gunpowder  in  various 
seductive  forms,  that  I  wonder  I  did  n't  explode 
under  Mr.  Grimshaw's  very  nose.  I  could  n't  do 
a  sum  to  save  me ;  I  could  n't  tell,  for  love  or 
money,  whether  Tallahassee  was  the  capital  of 
Tennessee  or  of  Florida;  the  present  and  the 
pluperfect  tenses  were  inextricably  mixed  in  my 
memory,  and  I  did  n't  know  a  verb  from  an  ad 
jective  when  I  met  one.  This  was  not  alone  my 
condition,  but  that  of  every  boy  in  the  school. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  considerately  made  allowances 
for  our  temporary  distraction,  and  sought  to  fix 
our  interest  on  the  lessons  by  connecting  them 
directly  or  indirectly  with  the  coming  Event. 
The  class  in  arithmetic,  for  instance,  was ,  re 
quested  to  state  how  many  boxes  of  fire-crackers, 
each  box  measuring  sixteen  inches  square,  could 
be  stored  in  a  room  of  such  and  such  dimensions. 
He  gave  us  the  Declaration  of  Independence  for 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.    IV.  15 


206  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [April, 

a  parsing  exercise,  and  in  geography  confined  his  questions  almost  exclu 
sively  to  localities  rendered  famous  in  the  Revolutionary  war. 

"  What  did  the  people  of  Boston  do  with  the  tea  on  board  the  English 
vessels  ?  "  asked  our  wily  instructor. 

"  Threw  it  into  the  river  ! "  shrieked  the  boys,  with  an  impetuosity  that 
made  Mr.  Grimshaw  smile  in  spite  of  himself.  One  luckless  urchin  said, 
"  Chucked  it,"  for  which  happy  expression  he  was  kept  in  at  recess. 

Notwithstanding  these  clever  stratagems,  there  was  not  much  solid  work 
done  by  anybody.  The  trail  of  the  serpent  (an  inexpensive  but  dangerous 
fire-toy)  was  over  us  all.  We  went  round  deformed  by  quantities  of  Chinese 
crackers  artlessly  concealed  in  our  trousers-pockets  ;  and  if  a  boy  whipped 
out  his  handkerchief  without  proper  precaution,  he  was  sure  to  let  off  two  or 
three  torpedoes. 

Even  Mr.  Grimshaw  was  made  a  sort  of  accessory  to  the  universal  demor 
alization.  In  calling  the  school  to  order,  he  always  rapped  on  the  table  with 
a  heavy  ruler.  Under  the  green  baize  table-cloth,  on  the  exact  spot  where 
he  usually  struck,  a  certain  boy,  whose  name  I  withhold,  placed  a  fat  tor 
pedo.  The  result  was  a  loud  explosion,  which  caused  Mr.  Grimshaw  to  look 
queer.  Charley  Marden  was  at  the  water-pail,  at  the  time,  and  directed  gen 
eral  attention  to  himself  by  strangling  for  several  seconds  and  then  squirting 
a  slender  thread  of  water  over  the  blackboard. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  fixed  his  eyes  reproachfully  on  Charley,  but  said  nothing. 
The  real  culprit  (it  was  n't  Charley  Marden,  but  the  boy  whose  name  I  with 
hold)  instantly  regretted  his  badness,  and  after  school  confessed  the  whole 
thing  to  Mr.  Grimshaw,  who  heaped  coals  of  fire  upon  the  nameless  boy's 
head  by  giving  him  five  cents  for  the  Fourth  of  July.  If  Mr.  Grimshaw  had 
caned  this  unknown  youth,  the  punishment  would  not  have  been  half  so 
severe. 

On  the  last  day  of  June,  the  Captain  received  a  letter  from  my  father,  en 
closing  five  dollars  "  for  my  son  Tom,"  which  enabled  that  young  gentleman 
to  make  regal  preparations  for  the  celebration  of  our  national  independence. 
A  portion  of  this  money,  two  dollars,  I  hastened  to  invest  in  fireworks  ;  the 
balance  I  put  by  for  contingencies.  In  placing  the  fund  in  my  possession, 
the  Captain  imposed  one  condition  that  dampened  my  ardor  considerably,  — 
I  was  to  buy  no  gunpowder.  I  might  have  all  the  snapping-crackers  and  tor 
pedoes  I  wanted  ;  but  gunpowder  was  out  of  the  question. 

I  thought  this  rather  hard,  for  all  my  young  friends  were  provided  with 
pistols  of  various  sizes.  Pepper  Whitcomb  had  a  horse-pistol  nearly  as  large 
as  himself,  and  Jack  Harris,  though  he  to  be  sure  was  a  big  boy,  was  going 
to  have  a  real  old-fashioned  flint-lock  musket.  However,  I  did  n't  mean  to 
let  this  drawback  destroy  my  happiness.  I  had  one  charge  of  powder  stowed 
away  in  the  little  brass  pistol  which  I  brought  from  New  Orleans,  and  was 
bound  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world  once,  if  I  never  did  again. 

It  was  a  custom  observed  from  time  immemorial  for  the  towns-boys  to 
have  a  bonfire  on  the  Square  on  the  midnight  before  the  Fourth.  I  did  n't 
ask  the  Captain's  leave  to  attend  this  ceremony,  for  I  had  a  general  idea 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  207 

that  he  would  n't  give  it.  If  the  Captain,  I  reasoned,  does  n't  forbid  me,  I 
break  no  orders  by  going.  Now  this  was  a  specious  line  of  argument, 
and  the  mishaps  that  befell  me  in  consequence  of  adopting  it  were  richly 
deserved. 

On  the  evening  of  the  3d  I  retired  to  bed  very  early,  in  order  to  disarm 
suspicion.  I  did  n't  sleep  a  wink,  waiting  for  eleven  o'clock  to  come  round ; 
and  I  thought  it  never  would  come  round,  as  I  lay  counting  from  time  to 
time  the  slow  strokes  of  the  ponderous  bell  in  the  steeple  of  the  Old  North 
Church.  At  length  the  laggard  hour  arrived.  While  the  clock  was  striking 
I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  began  dressing. 

My  grandfather  and  Miss  Abigail  were  heavy  sleepers,  and  I  might  have 
stolen  down  stairs  and  out  at  the  front  door  undetected  ;  but  such  a  common 
place  proceeding  did  not  suit  my  adventurous  disposition.  I  fastened  one 
end  of  a  rope  (it  was  a  few  yards  cut  from  Kitty  Collins's  clothes-line)  to  the 
bedpost  nearest  the  window,  and  cautiously  climbed  out  on  the  wide  pedi 
ment  over  the  hall  door.  I  had  neglected  to  knot  the  rope  ;  the  result  was, 
that,  the  moment  I  swung  clear  of  the  pediment,  I  descended  like  a  flash  of 
lightning,  and  warmed  both  my  hands  smartly.  The  rope  moreover  was  four 
or  five  feet  too  short ;  so  I  got  a  fall  that  would  have  proved  serious  had  I 
not  tumbled  into  the  middle  of  one  of  the  big  rose-bushes  growing  on  either 
side  of  the  steps. 

I  scrambled  out  of  that  without  delay,  and  was  congratulating  myself  on 
my  good  luck,  when  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  setting  moon  the  form  of  a  man 
leaning  over  the  garden  gate.  It  was  one  of  the  town  watch,  who  had  prob 
ably  been  observing  my  operations  with  curiosity.  Seeing  no  chance  of  es 
cape,  I  put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter  and  walked  directly  up  to  him. 

"  What  on  airth  air  you  a  doin'  ?  "  asked  the  man,  grasping  the  collar  of 
my  jacket. 

"  I  live  here,  sir,  if  you  please,"  I  replied,  "  and  am  going  to  the  bonfire. 
I  did  n't  want  to  wake  up  the  old  folks,  that 's  all." 

The  man  cocked  his  eye  at  me  in  the  most  amiable  manner,  and  released 
his  hold. 

"  Boys  is  boys,"  he  muttered.  He  did  n't  attempt  to  stop  me  as  I  slipped 
through  the  gate. 

Once  beyond  his  clutches,  I  took  to  my  heels  and  soon  reached  the 
Square,  where  I  found  forty  or  fifty  fellows  assembled,  engaged  in  building  a 
pyramid  of  tar-barrels.  The  palms  of  my  hands  still  tingled  so  that  I 
could  n't  join  in  the  sport.  I  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  Nautalis  Bank, 
watching  the  workers,  among  whom  I  recognized  lots  of  my  schoolmates. 
They  looked  like  a  legion  of  imps,  coming  and  going  in  the  twilight,  busy  in 
raising  some  infernal  edifice.  What  a  Babel  of  voices  it  was,  everybody 
directing  everybody  else,  and  everybody  doing  everything  wrong  ! 

When  all  was  prepared,  somebody  applied  a  match  to  the  sombre  pile.  A 
fiery  tongue  thrust  itself  out  here  and  there,  then  suddenly  the  whole  fabric 
burst  into  flames,  blazing  and  crackling  beautifully.  This  was  a  signal  for 
the  boys  to  join  hands  and  dance  around  the  burning  barrels,  which  they  did 


2O8  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [April, 

shouting  like  mad  creatures.  When  the  fire  had  burnt  down  a  little,  fresh 
staves  were  brought  and  heaped  on  the  pyre.  In  the  excitement  of  the  mo 
ment  I  forgot  my  tingling  palms,  and  found  myself  in  the  thick  of  the 
carousal. 

Before  we  were  half  ready,  our  combustible  material  was  expended,  and  a 
disheartening  kind  of  darkness  settled  down  upon  us.  The  boys  collected 
together  here  and  there  in  knots,  consulting  as  to  what  should  be  done.  It 
yet  lacked  four  or  five  hours  of  daybreak,  and  none  of  us  were  in  the  humor 
to  return  to  bed.  I  approached  one  of  the  groups  standing  near  the  town- 
pump,  and  discovered  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  dying  brands  the  figures 
of  Jack  Harris,  Phil  Adams,  Harry  Blake,  and  Pepper  Whitcomb,  their  faces 
streaked  with  perspiration  and  tar,  and  their  whole  appearance  suggestive 
of  New  Zealand  chiefs. 

"  Hullo  !  here  's  Tom  Bailey  !  "  shouted  Pepper  Whitcomb  ;  "  he  '11  join 
in!" 

Of  course  he  would.  The  sting  had  gone  out  of  my  hands,  and  I  was  ripe 
for  anything,  —  none  the  less  ripe  for  not  knowing  what  was  on  the  tapis. 
After  whispering  together  for  a  moment,  the  boys  motioned  me  to  follow 
them. 

We  glided  out  from  the  crowd  and  silently  wended  our  way  through  a 
neighboring  alley,  at  the  head  of  which  stood  a  tumble-down  old  barn,  owned 
by  one  Ezra  Wingate.  In  former  days  this  was  the  stable  of  the  mail-coach 
that  ran  between  Rivermouth  and  Boston.  When  the  railroad  superseded 
that  primitive  mode  of  travel,  the  lumbering  vehicle  was  rolled  into  the  barn, 
and  there  it  stayed.  The  stage-driver,  after  prophesying  the  immediate 
downfall  of  the  nation,  died  of  grief  and  apoplexy,  and  the  old  coach  followed 
in  his  wake  as  fast  as  it  could  by  quietly  dropping  to  pieces.  The  barn  had 
the  reputation  of  being  haunted,  and  I  think  we  all  kept  very  close  together 
when  we  found  ourselves  standing  in  the  black  shadow  cast  by  the  tall  gable. 
Here,  in  a  low  voice,  Jack  Harris  laid  bare  his  plan,  which  was  to  burn  the 
ancient  stage-coach. 

"  The  old  trundle-cart  is  n't  worth  twenty-five  cents,"  said  Jack  Harris, 
"  and  Ezra  Wingate  ought  to  thank  us  for  getting  the  rubbish  out  of  the  way. 
But  if  any  fellow  here  does  n't  want  to  have  a  hand  in  it,  let  him  cut  and  run, 
and  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  his  head  ever  after." 

With  this  he  pulled  out  the  staples  that  held  the  rusty  padlock,  and  the  big 
barn-door  swung  slowly  open.  The  interior  of  the  stable  was  pitch-dark,  of 
course.  As  we  made  a  movement  to  enter,  a  sudden  scrambling,  and  the 
sound  of  heavy  bodies  leaping  in  all  directions,  caused  us  to  start  back  in 
terror. 

"  Rats  !  "  cried  Phil  Adams. 

"  Bats  !  "  exclaimed  Harry  Blake. 

"  Cats  !  "  suggested  Jack  Harris.     «  Who  's  afraid  ?  " 

Well,  the  truth  is,  we  were  all  afraid  ;  and  if  the  pole  of  the  stage  had  not 
been  lying  close  to  the  threshold,  I  don't  believe  anything  on  earth  would 
have  induced  us  to  cross  it.  We  seized  hold  of  the  pole-straps  and  succeed- 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  209 

ed  with  great  trouble  in  dragging  the  coach  out.  The  two  fore  wheels  had 
rusted  to  the  axle-tree,  and  refused  to  revolve.  It  was  the  merest  skeleton 
of  a  coach.  The  cushions  had  long  since  been  removed,  and  the  leather 
hangings  had  crumbled  away  from  the  worm-eaten  frame.  A  load  of  ghosts 
and  a  span  of  phantom  horses  to  drag  them  would  have  made  the  ghastly 
thing  complete. 

Luckily  for  our  undertaking,  the  stable  stood  at  the  top  of  a  very  steep 
hill.  With  three  boys  to  push  behind,  and  two  in  front  to  steer,  we  started 
the  old  coach  on  its  last  trip  with  little  or  no  difficulty.  Our-speed  increased 
every  moment,  and,  the  fore  wheels  becoming  unlocked  as  we  arrived  at  the 
foot  of  the  declivity,  we  charged  upon  the  crowd  like  a  regiment  of  cavalry, 
scattering  the  people  right  and  left.  Before  reaching  the  bonfire,  to  which 
some  one  had  added  several  bushels  of  shavings,  Jack  Harris  and  Phil  Ad 
ams,  who  were  steering,  dropped  on  the  ground,  and  allowed  the  vehicle  to 
pass  over  them,  which  it  did  without  injuring  them  ;  but  the  boys  who  were 
clinging  for  dear  life  to  the  trunk-rack  behind  fell  over  the  prostrate  steers 
men,  and  there  we  all  lay  in  a  heap,  two  or  three  of  us  quite  picturesque  with 
the  nose-bleed. 

The  coach,  with  an  intuitive  perception  of  what  was  expected  of  it,  plunged 
into  the  centre  of  the  kindling  shavings,  and  stopped.  The  flames  sprung 
up  and  clung  to  the  rotten  woodwork,  which  burned  like  tinder.  At  this 
moment  a  figure  was  seen  leaping  wildly  from  the  inside  of  the  blazing  coach. 
The  figure  made  three  bounds  towards  us,  and  tripped  over  Harry  Blake.  It 
was  Pepper  Whitcomb,  with  his  hair  somewhat  singed,  and  his  eyebrows 
completely  scorched  off ! 

Pepper  had  slyly  ensconced  himself  on  the  back  seat  before  we  started,  in 
tending  to  have  a  neat  little  ride  down  hill,  and  a  laugh  at  us  afterwards. 
But  the  laugh,  as  it  happened,  was  on  our  side,  or  would  have  been,  if  half  a 
dozen  watchmen  had  not  suddenly  pounced  down  upon  us,  as  we  lay  scram 
bling  on  the  ground,  weak  with  our  mirth  over  Pepper's  misfortune.  We 
were  collared  and  marched  off  before  we  well  knew  what  had  happened. 

The  abrupt  transition  from  the  noise  and  light  of  the  Square  to  the  silent, 
gloomy  brick  room  in  the  rear  of  the  Meat  Market  seemed  like  the  work  of 
enchantment.     We  stared  at  each  other  aghast. 
*     "  Well,"  remarked  Jack  Harris,  with  a  sickly  smile,  "  this  is  a  go  !  " 

"  No  go,  I  should  say,"  whimpered  Harry  Blake,  glancing  at  the  bare  brick 
walls  and  the  heavy  iron-plated  door. 

"  Never  say  die,"  muttered  Phil  Adams,  dolefully. 

The  bridewell  was  a  small,  low-studded  chamber  built  up  against  the  rear 
end  of  the  Meat  Market,  and  approached  from  the  Square  by  a  narrow  pas 
sage-way.  A  portion  of  the  room  was  partitioned  off  into  eight  cells,  num 
bered,  each  capable  of  holding  two  persons.  The  cells  were  full  at  the  time, 
as  we  presently  discovered  by  seeing  several  hideous  faces  leering  out  at  us 
through  the  gratings  of  the  doors. 

A  smoky  oil-lamp  in  a  lantern  suspended  from  the  ceiling  threw  a  flicker 
ing  light  over  the  apartment,  which  contained  no  furniture  excepting  a  couple 


2IO  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [April, 

of  stout  wooden  benches.  It  was  a  dismal  place  by  night,  and  only  little  less 
dismal  by  day,  for  the  tall  houses  surrounding  "  the  lock-up  "  prevented  the 
faintest  ray  of  sunshine  from  penetrating  the  ventilator  over  the  door,  —  a 
long  narrow  window  opening  inward  and  propped  up  by  a  piece  of  lath. 

As  we  seated  ourselves  in  a  row  on  one  of  the  benches,  I  imagine  that  our 
aspect  was  anything  but  cheerful.  Adams  and  Harris  looked  very  anxious, 
and  Harry  Blake,  whose  nose  had  just  stopped  bleeding,  was  mournfully 
carving  his  name,  by  sheer  force  of  habit,  on  the  prison-bench.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  a  more  "  wrecked  "  expression  on  any  human  countenance 
than  Pepper  Whitcomb's  presented.  His  look  of  natural  astonishment  at 
finding  himself  incarcerated  in  a  jail  was  considerably  heightened  by  his  lack 
of  eyebrows.  As  for  me,  it  was  only  by  thinking  how  the  late  Baron  Trenck 
would  have  conducted  himself  under  similar  circumstances  that  I  was  able 
to  restrain  my  tears. 

None  of  us  were  inclined  to  conversation.  A  deep  silence,  broken  now 
and  then  by  a  startling  snore  from  the  cells,  reigned  throughout  the  chamber. 
By  and  by,  Pepper  Whitcomb  glanced  nervously  towards  Phil  Adams  and 
said,  "  Phil,  do  you  think  they  will — hang  us  ?  " 

"Hang  your  grandmother!"  returned  Adams,  impatiently;  "what  I'm 
afraid  of  is  that  they  '11  keep  us  locked  up  until  the  Fourth  is  over." 

"  You  ain't  smart  ef  they  do  !  "  cried  a  voice  from  one  of  the  cells.  It  was 
a  deep  bass  voice  that  sent  a  chill  through  me. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Jack  Harris,  addressing  the  cells  in  general ;  for 
the  echoing  qualities  of  the  room  made  it  difficult  to  locate  the  voice. 

"  That  don't  matter,"  replied  the  speaker,  putting  his  face  close  up  to  the 
gratings  of  No.  3,  "  but  ef  I  was  a  youngster  like  you,  free  an'  easy  outside 
there,  with  no  bracelets  *  on,  this  spot  would  n't  hold  me  long." 

"  That 's  so  !  "  chimed  several  of  the  prison-birds,  wagging  their  heads 
behind  the  iron  lattices. 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  Jack  Harris,  rising  from  his  seat  and  walking  on  tip 
toe  to  the  door  of  cell  No.  3.  "  What  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  Why,  I  'd  pile  them  'ere  benches  up  agin  that  'ere  door,  an'  crawl 
out  of  that  'ere  winder  in  no  time.  That 's  my  adwice." 

"  And  wery  good  adwice  it  is,  Jim,"  said  the  occupant  of  No.  5,  approv 
ingly. 

Jack  Harris  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  for  he  hastily  placed  the 
benches  one  on  the  top  of  another  under  the  ventilator,  and,  climbing  up  on 
the  highest  bench,  peeped  out  into  the  passage-way. 

"  If  any  gent  happens  to  have  a  ninepence  about  him,"  said  the  man  in  cell 
No.  3,  "there's  a  sufferin'  family  here  as  could  make  use  of  it.  Smallest 
favors  gratefully  received,  an'  no  questions  axed." 

This  appeal  touched  a  new  silver  quarter  of  a  dollar  in  my  trousers-pock 
et  ;  I  fished  out  the  coin  from  a  mass  of  fireworks,  and  gave  it  to  the  pris 
oner.  He  appeared  to  be  such  a  good-natured  fellow  that  I  ventured  to  ask 
what  he  had  done  to  get  into  jail. 

*  Handcuffs. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  21 1 

"  Intirely  innocent.  I  was  clapped  in  here  by  a  rascally  nevew  as  wishes 
to  enjoy  my  wealth  afore  I  'm  dead." 

"  Your  name,  sir  ?  "  I  inquired,  with  a  view  of  reporting  the  outrage  to  my 
grandfather  and  having  the  injured  person  reinstated  in  society. 

"  Git  out,  you  insolent  young  reptyle  !  "  shouted  the  man,  in  a  passion.  I 
retreated  precipitately,  amid  a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  other  cells. 

"  Can't  you  keep  still  ?  "  exclaimed  Harris,  withdrawing  his  head  from  the 
window. 

A  portly  watchman  usually  sat  on  a  stool  outside  the  door  day  and  night ; 
but  on  this  particular  occasion,  his  services  being  required  elsewhere,  the 
bridewell  had  been  left  to  guard  itself. 

"  All  clear,"  whispered  Jack  Harris,  as  he  vanished  through  the  aperture 
and  dropped  gently  on  the  ground  outside.  We  all  followed  him  expedi- 
tiously,  —  Pepper  Whitcomb  and  myself  getting  stuck  in  the  window  for  a 
moment  in  our  frantic  efforts  not  to  be  last. 

"  Now,  boys,  everybody  for  himself !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   ADVENTURES   OF  A  FOURTH. 

THE  sun  cast  a  broad  column  of  quivering  gold  across  the  river  at  the  foot 
of  our  street,  just  as  I  reached  the  doorstep  of  the  Nutter  House.  Kitty 
Collins,  with  her  dress  tucked  about  her  so  that  she  looked  as  if  she  had  on 
a  pair  of  calico  trousers,  was  washing  off  the  sidewalk. 

"  Arrah,  you  bad  boy  !  "  cried  Kitty,  leaning  on  the  mop-handle,  "  the 
Capen  has  jist  been  askin'  for  you.  He  's  gone  up  town,  now.  It 's  a  nate 
thing  you  done  with  my  clothes-line,  and  it 's  me  you  may  thank  for  gettin' 
it  out  of  the  way  before  the  Capen  come  down." 

The  kind  creature  had  hauled  in  the  rope,  and  my  escapade  had  not  been 
discovered  by  the  family  ;  but  I  knew  very  well  that  the  burning  of  the  stage 
coach,  and  the  arrest  of  the  boys  concerned  in  the  mischief,  were  sure  to 
reach  my  grandfather's  ears  sooner  or  later. 

"  Well,  Thomas,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  an  hour  or  so  afterwards, 
beaming  upon  me  benevolently  across  the  breakfast-table,  "  you  did  n't  wait 
to  be  called  this  morning." 

"  No,  sir,"  I  replied,  growing  very  warm,  "  I  took  a  little  run  up  town  to 
see  what  was  going  on." 

I  did  n't  say  anything  about  the  little  run  I  took  home  again  ! 

"  They  had  quite  a  time  on  the  Square  last  night,"  remarked  Captain  Nut 
ter,  looking  up  from  the  "  Rivermouth  Barnacle,"  which  was  always  placed 
beside  his  coffee-cup  at  breakfast. 

I  felt  that  my  hair  was  preparing  to  stand  on  end. 

"  Quite  a  time,"  continued  my  grandfather.  "  Some  boys  broke  into 
Ezra  Wingate's  barn  and  carried  off  the  old  stage-coach.  The  young  ras 
cals  !  I  do  believe  they  'd  burn  up  the  whole  town  if  they  had  their  way." 


212  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [April, 

With  this  he  resumed  the  paper.  After  a  long  silence  he  exclaimed, 
"  Hullo  !  "  —  upon  which  I  nearly  fell  off  the  chair. 

"  *  Miscreants  unknown,'  "  read  my  grandfather,  following  the  paragraph 
with  his  forefinger ;  " l  escaped  from  the  bridewell,  leaving  no  clew  to  their 
identity,  except  the  letter  H,  cut  on  one  of  the  benches.'  *  Five  dollars 
reward  offered  for  the  apprehension  of  the  perpetrators.'  Sho  !  I  hope 
Wingate  will  catch  them." 

I  don't  see  how  I  continued  to  live,  for  on  hearing  this  the  breath  went 
entirely  out  of  my  body.  I  beat  a  retreat  from  the  room  as  soon  as  I  could, 
and  flew  to  the  stable  with  a  misty  intention  of  mounting  Gypsy  and  escap 
ing  from  the  place.  I  was  pondering  what  steps  to  take,  when  Jack  Harris 
and  Charley  Marden  entered  the  yard. 

"  I  say,"  said  Harris,  as  blithe  as  a  lark,  "  has  old  Wingate  been  here  ?  " 

"  Been  here  ?  "  I  cried.     "  I  should  hope  not !  " 

"  The  whole  thing  's  out,  you  know,"  said  Harris,  pulling  Gypsy's  forelock 
over  her  eyes  and  blowing  playfully  into  her  nostrils. 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  "  I  gasped. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  we  're  to  pay  Wingate  three  dollars  apiece.  He  '11  make 
rather  a  good  spec  out  of  it." 

"  But  how  did  he  discover  that  we  were  the  —  the  miscreants  ?  "  I  asked, 
quoting  mechanically  from  the  "  Rivermouth  Barnacle." 

"  Why,  he  saw  us  take  the  old  ark,  confound  him  !  He  's  been  trying  to 
sell  it  any  time  these  ten  years.  Now  he  has  sold  it  to  us.  When  he  found 
that  we  had  slipped  out  of  the  Meat  Market,  he  went  right  off  and  wrote  the 
advertisement  offering  five  dollars  reward  ;  though  he  knew  well  enough  who 
had  taken  the  coach,  for  he  came  round  to  my  father's  house  before  the  paper 
was  printed  to  talk  the  matter  over.  Was  n't  the  governor  mad,  though  ! 
But  it 's  all  settled,  I  tell  you.  We  're  to  pay  Wingate  fifteen  dollars  for  the 
old  go-cart,  which  he  wanted  to  sell  the  other  day  for  seventy-five  cents,  and 
could  n't.  It's  a  downright  swindle.  But  the  funny  part  of  it  is  to  come." 

"  O,  there 's  a  funny  part  to  it,  is  there  ?  "  I  remarked  bitterly. 

"  Yes.  The  moment  Bill  Conway  saw  the  advertisement,  he  knew  it  was 
Harry  Blake  who  cut  that  letter  H  on  the  bench  ;  so  off  he  rushes  up  to 
Wingate  —  kind  of  him,  was  n't  it  ?  —  and  claims  the  reward.  *  Too  late, 
young  man,'  says  old  Wingate,  '  the  culprits  has  been  discovered.'  You  see 
Sly-boots  had  n't  any  intention  of  paying  that  five  dollars." 

Jack  Harris's  statement  lifted  a  weight  from  my  bosom.  The  article  in 
the  "  Rivermouth  Barnacle  "  had  placed  the  affair  before  me  in  a  new  light 
I  had  thoughtlessly  committed  a  grave  offence.  Though  the  property  in 
question  was  valueless,  we  were  clearly  wrong  in  destroying  it.  At  the  same 
time  Mr.  Wingate  had  tacitly  sanctioned  the  act  by  not  preventing  it  when 
he  might  easily  have  done  so.  He  had  allowed  his  property  to  be  destroyed 
in  order  that  he  might  realize  a  large  profit. 

Without  waiting  to  hear  more,  I  went  straight  to  Captain  Nutter,  and,  lay 
ing  my  remaining  three  dollars  on  his  knee,  confessed  my  share  in  the  pre 
vious  night's  transaction. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  213 

The  Captain  heard  me  through  in  profound  silence,  pocketed  the  bank 
notes,  and  walked  off  without  speaking  a  word.  He  had  punished  me  in  his 
own  whimsical  fashion  at  the  breakfast-table,  for,  at  the  very  moment  he  was 
harrowing  up  my  soul  by  reading  the  extracts  from  the  "  Ri vermouth  Bar 
nacle,"  he  not  only  knew  all  about  the  bonfire,  but  had  paid  Ezra  Wingate 
his  three  dollars.  Such  was  the  duplicity  of  that  aged  impostor  ! 

I  think  Captain  Nutter  was  justified  in  retaining  my  pocket-money,  as  ad 
ditional  punishment,  though  the  possession  of  it  later  in  the  day  would  have 
got  me  out  of  a  difficult  position,  as  the  reader  will  see  further  on. 

I  returned  with  a  light  heart  and  a  large  piece  of  punk  to  my  friends  in  the 
stable-yard,  where  we  celebrated  the  termination  of  our  trouble  by  setting  off 
two  packs  of  fire-crackers  in  an  empty  wine-cask.  They  made  a  prodigious 
racket,  but  failed  somehow  to  fully  express  my  feelings.  The  little  brass  pis 
tol  in  my  bedroom  suddenly  occurred  to  me.  It  had  been  loaded  I  don't 
know  how  many  months,  long  before  I  left  New  Orleans,  and  now  was  the 
time,  if  ever,  to  fire  it  off.  Muskets,  blunderbusses,  and  pistols  were  bang 
ing  away  lively  all  over  town,  and  the  smell  of  gunpowder,  floating  on  the 
air,  set  me  wild  to  add  something  respectable  to  the  universal  din. 

When  the  pistol  was  produced,  Jack  Harris  examined  the  rusty  cap  and 
prophesied  that  it  would  not  explode.  "  Never  mind,"  said  I,  "  let 's  try  it." 

I  had  fired  the  pistol  once,  secretly,  in  New  Orleans,  and,  remembering  the 
noise  it  gave  birth  to  on  that  occasion,  I  shut  both  eyes  tight  as  I  pulled  the 
trigger.  The  hammer  clicked  on  the  cap  with  a  dull,  dead  sound.  Then 
Harris  tried  it ;  then  Charley  Marden  ;  then  I  took  it  again,  and  after  three 
or  four  trials  was  on  the  point  of  giving  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  when  the  obsti 
nate  thing  went  off  with  a  tremendous  explosion,  nearly  jerking  my  arm  from 
the  socket.  The  smoke  cleared  away,  and  there  I  stood  with  the  stock  of 
the  pistol  clutched  convulsively  in  my  hand,  —  the  barrel,  lock,  trigger,  and 
ramrod  having  vanished  into  thin  air. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  cried  the  boys,  in  one  breath. 

"  N — no,"  I  replied,  dubiously,  for  the  concussion  had  bewildered  me  a  little. 

When  I  realized  the  nature  of  the  calamity,  my  grief  was  excessive.  I 
can't  imagine  what  led  me  to  do  so  ridiculous  a  thing,  but  I  gravely  buried 
the  remains  of  my  beloved  pistol  in  our  back  garden,  and  erected  over  the 
mound  a  slate  tablet  to  the  effect  that  "Mr.  Barker,  formerly  of  new 
Orleans,  was  Killed  accidentally  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  18 —  in  the  2nd 
year  of  his  Age."  *  Binny  Wallace,  arriving  on  the  spot  just  after  the  disas 
ter,  and  Charley  Marden  (who  enjoyed  the  obsequies  immensely),  acted  with 
me  as  chief  mourners.  I,  for  my  part,  was  a  very  sincere  one. 

As  I  turned  away  in  a  disconsolate  mood  from  the  garden,  Charley 
Marden  remarked  that  he  should  n't  be  surprised  if  the  pistol-but  took 
root  and  grew  into  a  mahogany-tree  or  something.  He  said  he  once  plant 
ed  an  old  musket-stock,  and  shortly  afterwards  a  lot  of  shoots  sprung  up  ! 

This  inscription  is  copied  from  a  triangular-shaped  piece  of  slate,  still  preserved  in  the  garret  of 
the  Nutter  House,  together  with  the  pistol-but  itself,  which  was  subsequently  dug  up  for  a  post-mor 
tem  examination. 


214  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [April, 

Jack  Harris  laughed  ;  but  neither  I  nor  Binny  Wallace  saw  Charley's  wicked 
joke. 

We  were  now  joined  by  Pepper  Whitcomb,  Fred  Langdon,  and  several 
other  desperate  characters,  on  their  way  to  the  Square,  which  was  always  a 
busy  place  when  public  festivities  were  going  on.  Feeling  that  I  was  still  in 
disgrace  with  the  Captain,  I  thought  it  politic  to  ask  his  consent  before 
accompanying  the  boys.  He  gave  it  with  some  hesitation,  advising  me  to  be 
careful  not  to  get  in  front  of  the  firearms.  Once  he  put  his  fingers  mechan 
ically  into  his  vest-pocket  and  half  drew  forth  some  dollar-bills,  then  slowly 
thrust  them  back  again  as  his  sense  of  justice  overcame  his  genial  disposition. 
I  guess  it  cut  the  old  gentleman  to  the  heart  to  be  obliged  to  keep  me  out  of 
my  pocket-money.  I  know  it  did  me.  However,  as  I  was  passing  through  the 
hall,  Miss  Abigail,  with  a  very  severe  cast  of  countenance,  slipped  a  bran-new 
quarter  into  my  hand.  We  had  silver  currency  in  those  days,  thank  Heaven  ! 

Great  were  the  bustle  and  confusion  on  the  Square.  By  the  way,  I  don't 
know  why  they  called  this  large  open  space  a  square,  unless  because  it  was 
an  oval,  —  an  oval  formed  by  the  confluence  of  half  a  dozen  streets,  now 
thronged  by  crowds  of  smartly  dressed  towns-people  and  country  folks  ;  for 
Rivermouth  on  the  Fourth  was  the  centre  of  attraction  to  the  inhabitants  of 
the  neighboring  villages. 

On  one  side  of  the  Square  were  twenty  or  thirty  booths  arranged  in  a  semi 
circle,  gay  with  little  flags,  and  seductive  with  lemonade,  ginger-beer,  and 
seed-cakes.  Here  and  there  were  tables  at  which  could  be  purchased  the 
smaller  sort  of  fireworks,  such  as  pin-wheels,  serpents,  double-headers,  and 
punk  warranted  not  to  go  out.  Many  of  the  adjacent  houses  made  a  pretty 
display  of  bunting,  and  across  each  of  the  streets  opening  on  the  Square  was 
an  arch  of  spruce  and  evergreen,  blossoming  all  over  with  patriotic  mottoes 
and  paper  roses. 

It  was  a  noisy,  merry,  bewildering  scene  as  we  came  upon  the  ground. 
The  incessant  rattle  of  small  arms,  the  booming  of  the  twelve-pounder  firing 
on  the  Mill  Dam,  and  the  silvery  clangor  of  the  church-bells  ringing  simul 
taneously,  —  not  to  mention  an  ambitious  brass-band  that  was  blowing  itself 
to  pieces  on  a  balcony,  —  were  enough  to  drive  one  distracted.  We  amused 
ourselves  for  an  hour  or  two,  darting  in  and  out  among  the  crowd  and  set 
ting  off  our  crackers.  At  one  o'clock  the  Hon.  Hezekiah  Elkins  mounted  a 
platform  in  the  middle  of  the  Square  and  delivered  an  oration,  to  which  his 
fellow-citizens  did  n't  pay  much  attention,  having  all  they  could  do  to  dodge 
the  squibs  that  were  set  loose  upon  them  by  mischievous  boys  stationed  on 
the  surrounding  house-tops. 

Our  little  party,  which  had  picked  up  recruits  here  and  there,  not  being 
swayed  by  eloquence,  withdrew  to  a  booth  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 
where  we  regaled  ourselves  with  root-beer  at  two  cents  a  glass.  I  recollect 
being  much  struck  by  the  placard  surmounting  this  tent :  — 

ROOT  BEER 
SOLD  HERE. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  215 

It  seemed  to  me  the  perfection  of  pith  and  poetry.  What  could  be  more 
terse  ?  Not  a  word  to  spare,  and  yet  everything  fully  expressed.  Rhyme  and 
rhythm  faultless.  It  was  a  delightful  poet  who  made  those  verses.  As  for 
the  beer  itself,  —  that,  I  think,  must  have  been  made  from  the  root  of  all  evil ! 
A  single  glass  of  it  insured  an  uninterrupted  pain  for  twenty-four  hours. 
The  influence  of  my  liberality  working  on  Charley  Harden,  —  for  it  was  I 
who  paid  for  the  beer,  —  he  presently  invited  us  all  to  take  an  ice-cream 
with  him  at  Pettingil's  saloon.  Pettingil  was  the  Delmonico  of  Rivermouth. 
He  furnished  ices  and  confectionery  for  aristocratic  balls  and  parties,  and 
did  n't  disdain  to  officiate  as  leader  of  the  orchestra  at  the  same  ;  for  Pettingil 
played  on  the  violin,  as  Pepper  Whitcomb  described  it,  "  like  Old  Scratch." 

Pettingil's  confectionery  store  was  on  the  corner  of  Willow  and  High 
Streets.  The  saloon,  separated  from  the  shop  by  a  flight  of  three  steps  lead 
ing  to  a  door  hung  with  faded  red  drapery,  had  about  it  an  air  of  mystery  and 
seclusion  quite  delightful.  Four  windows,  also  draped,  faced  the  side- 
street,  affording  an  unobstructed  view  of  Marm  Hatch's  back  yard,  where  a 
number  of  inexplicable  garments  on  a  clothes-line  were  always  to  be  seen 
careering  in  the  wind. 

There  was  a  lull  just  then  in  the  ice-cream  business,  it  being  dinner-time, 
and  we  found  the  saloon  unoccupied.  When  we  had  seated  ourselves 
around  the  largest  marble-topped  table,  Charley  Harden  in  a  manly  voice 
ordered  twelve  sixpenny  ice-creams,  "  strawberry  and  verneller  mixed." 

It  was  a  magnificent  sight,  those  twelve  chilly  glasses  entering  the  room 
on  a  waiter,  the  red  and  white  custard  rising  from  each  glass  like  a  church- 
steeple,  and  the  spoon-handle  shooting  up  from  the  apex  like  a  spire.  I 
doubt  if  a  person  of  the  nicest  palate  could  have  distinguished,  with  his 
eyes  shut,  which  was  the  vanilla  and  which  the  strawberry  ;  but,  if  I  could  at 
this  moment  obtain  a  cream  tasting  as  that  did,  I  would  give  five  dollars  for 
a  very  small  quantity. 

We  fell  to  with  a  will,  and  so  evenly  balanced  were  our  capabilities  that  we 
finished  our  creams  together,  the  spoons  clinking  in  the  glasses  like  one 
spoon. 

"  Let 's  have  some  more  !  "  cried  Charley  Harden,  with  the  air  of  Aladdin 
ordering  up  a  fresh  hogshead  of  pearls  and  rubies.  "  Tom  Bailey,  tell  Pet 
tingil  to  send  in  another  round." 

Could  I  credit  my  ears  ?  I  looked  at  him  to  see  if  he  were  in  earnest.  He 
meant  it.  In  a  moment  more  I  was  leaning  over  the  counter  giving  direc 
tions  for  a  second  supply.  Thinking  it  would  make  no  difference  to  such  a 
gorgeous  young  sybarite  as  Harden,  I  took  the  liberty  of  ordering  nine- 
penny  creams  this  time. 

On  returning  to  the  saloon,  what  was  my  horror  at  finding  it  empty  ! 

There  were  the  twelve  cloudy  glasses,  standing  in  a  circle  on  the  sticky 
marble  slab,  and  not  a  boy  to  be  seen.  A  pair  of  hands  letting  go  their  hold 
on  the  window-sill  outside  explained  matters.  I  had  been  made  a  victim. 

I  could  n't  stay  and  face  Pettingil,  whose  peppery  temper  was  well  known 
among  the  boys.  I  hadn't  a  cent  in  the  world  to  appease  him.  What 


216 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


[April, 


should  I  do  ?  I  heard  the  clink  of  approaching  glasses,  —  the  ninepenny 
creams.  I  rushed  to  the  nearest  window.  It  was  only  five  feet  to  the 
ground.  I  threw  myself  out  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  hat. 

Landing  on  my  feet,  I  fled  breathlessly  down  High  Street,  through  Wil 
low,  and  was  turning  into  Brierwood  Place  when  the  sound  of  several  voices, 
calling  to  me  in  distress,  stopped  my  progress. 

"  Look  out,  you  fool !  the  mine  !  the  mine  !  "  yelled  the  warning  voices. 

Several  men  and  boys  were  standing  at  the  head  of  the  street,  making  in 
sane  gestures  to  me  to  avoid  something.  But  I  saw  no  mine,  only  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  in  front  of  me  was  a  common  flour-barrel,  which,  as  I 
gazed  at  it,  suddenly  rose  into  the  air  with  a  terrific  explosion.  I  felt  myself 
thrown  violently  off  my  feet.  I  remember  nothing  else,  excepting  that,  as  I 
went  up,  I  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  Ezra  Wingate  leering  though  his 
shop  window  like  an  avenging  spirit. 

For  an  account  of  what  followed,  I  am  indebted  to  hearsay,  for  I  was  in 
sensible  when  the  people  picked  me  up  and  carried  me  home  on  a  shutter 
borrowed  from  the  proprietor  of  Pettingil's  saloon.  I  was  supposed  to  be 
killed,  but  happily  (happily  for  me,  at  least)  I  was  merely  stunned.  I  lay  in 
a  semi-unconscious  state  until  eight  o'clock  that  night,  when  I  attempted  to 
speak.  Miss  Abigail,  who  watched  by  the  bedside,  put  her  ear  down  to  my 
lips  and  was  saluted  with  these  remarkable  words :  — 


'Root  Beer 
Sold  Here  ! 


T.B.Aldrich. 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


MAY,    1869. 


No.  V. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  IX. 


I  BECOME  AN   R.   M.   C. 


N  the  course  of  ten  days  I  recovered  sufficiently 
from  my  injuries  to  attend  school,  where,  for  a 
little  while,  I  was  looked  upon  as  a  hero,  on 
account  of  having  been  blown  up.  What  don't 
we  make  a  hero  of?  The  distraction  which 
prevailed  in  the  classes  the  week  preceding  the 
Fourth  had  subsided,  and  nothing  remained  to 
indicate  the  recent  festivities,  excepting  a  no 
ticeable  want  of  eyebrows  on  the  part  of  Pepper 
Whitcomb  and  myself. 

In  August  we  had  two  weeks'  vacation.  It 
was  about  this  time  that  I  became  a  member  of 
the  Rivermouth  Centipedes,  a  secret  society 
composed  of  twelve  of  the  Temple  Grammar 
School  boys.  This  was  an  honor  to  which  I 
had  long  aspired,  but,  being  a  new  boy,  I  was 
not  admitted  to  the  fraternity  until  my  character 
had  fully  developed  itself. 

It  was  a  very  select  society,  the  object  of 
which  I  never  fathomed,  though  I  was  an  ac 
tive  member  of  the  body  during  the  remainder 
of  my  residence  at  Rivermouth,  and  at  onetime 
held  the  onerous  position  of  F.  C.,  —  First  Cen 
tipede.  Each  of  the  elect  wore  a  copper  cent  (some  occult  association  being 
established  between  a  cent  apiece  and  a  centipede  ! )  suspended  by  a  string 
round  his  neck.  The  medals  were  worn  next  the  skin,  and  it  was  while 
bathing  one  day  at  Grave  Point,  with  Jack  Harris  and  Fred  Langdon,  that 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.   V.  20 


274  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [May, 

I  had  my  curiosity  roused  to  the  highest  pitch  by  a  sight  of  these  singular 
emblems.  As  soon  as  I  ascertained  the  existence  of  a  boys'  club,  of 
course  I  was  ready  to  die  to  join  it.  And  eventually  I  was  allowed  to  join. 

The  initiation  ceremony  took  place  in  Fred  Langdon's  barn,  where  I  was 
submitted  to  a  series  of  trials  not  calculated  to  soothe  the  nerves  of  a  timor 
ous  boy.  Before  being  led  to  the  Grotto  of  Enchantment,  —  such  was  the 
modest  title  given  to  the  loft  over  my  friend's  wood-house,  —  my  hands  were 
securely  pinioned,  and  my  eyes  covered  with  a  thick  silk  handkerchief.  At 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  I  was  told  in  an  unrecognizable,  husky  voice,  that  it 
was  not  yet  too  late  to  retreat  if  I  felt  myself  physically  too  weak  to  undergo 
the  necessary  tortures.  I  replied  that  I  was  not  too  weak,  in  a  tone  which  I 
intended  to  be  resolute,  but  which,  in  spite  of  me,  seemed  to  come  from  the 
pit  of  my  stomach. 

"  It  is  well !  "  said  the  husky  voice. 

I  did  not  feel  so  sure  about  that ;  but,  having  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a 
Centipede,  a  Centipede  I  was  bound  to  be.  Other  boys  had  passed  through 
the  ordeal  and  lived,  why  should  not  I  ? 

A  prolonged  silence  followed  this  preliminary  examination,  and  I  was  won 
dering  what  would  come  next,  when  a  pistol  fired  off  close  by  my  ear  deaf 
ened  me  for  a  moment.  The  unknown  voice  then  directed  me  to  take  ten 
steps  forward  and  stop  at  the  word  halt.  I  took  ten  steps,  and  halted. 

"  Stricken  mortal,"  said  a  second  husky  voice,  more  husky,  if  possible,  than 
the  first,  "if  you  had  advanced  another  inch,  you  would  have  disappeared 
down  an  abyss  three  thousand  feet  deep  !  " 

I  naturally  shrunk  back  at  this  friendly  piece  of  information.  A  prick 
from  some  two-pronged  instrument,  evidently  a  pitchfork,  gently  checked 
my  retreat.  I  was  then  conducted  to  the  brink  of  several  other  precipices, 
and  ordered  to  step  over  many  dangerous  chasms,  where  the  result  would 
have  been  instant  death  if  I  had  committed  the  least  mistake.  I  have 
neglected  to  say  that  my  movements  were  accompanied  by  dismal  groans 
from  various  parts  of  the  grotto. 

Finally,  I  was  led  up  a  steep  plank  to  what  appeared  to  me  an  incalculable 
height.  Here  I  stood  breathless  while  the  by-laws  were  read  aloud.  A 
more  extraordinary  code  of  laws  never  came  from  the  brain  of  man.  The 
penalties  attached  to  the  abject  being  who  should  reveal  any  of  the  secrets 
of  the  society  were  enough  to  make  the  blood  run  cold.  A  second  pistol- 
shot  was  heard,  the  something  I  stood  on  sunk  with  a  crash  beneath  my  feet, 
and  I  fell  two  miles,  as  nearly  as  I  could  compute  it.  At  the  same  instant 
the  handkerchief  was  whisked  from  my  eyes,  and  I  found  myself  standing  in 
an  empty  hogshead  surrounded  by  twelve  masked  figures  fantastically 
dressed.  One  of  the  conspirators  was  really  appalling  with  a  tin  sauce 
pan  on  his  head,  and  a  tiger-skin  sleigh-robe  thrown  over  his  shoulders.  I 
scarcely  need  say  that  there  were  no  vestiges  to  be  seen  of  the  fearful  gulfs 
over  which  I  had  passed  so  cautiously.  My  ascent  had  been  to  the  top  of 
the  hogshead,  and  my  descent  to  the  bottom  thereof.  Holding  one  another 
by  the  hand,  and  chanting  a  low  dirge,  the  Mystic  Twelve  revolved  about 


1869.] 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


275 


me.     This  concluded  the  ceremony.     With  a  merry  shout  the  boys  threw  off 
their  masks,  and  I  was  declared  a  regularly  installed  member  of  the  R.  M.  C. 


I  afterwards  had  a  good  deal  of  sport  out  of  the  club,  for  these  initiations, 
as  you  may  imagine,  were  sometimes  very  comical  spectacles,  especially 
when  the  aspirant  for  centipedal  honors  happened  to  be  of  a  timid  disposi 
tion.  If  he  showed  the  slightest  terror,  he  was  certain  to  be  tricked  unmer 
cifully.  One  of  our  subsequent  devices  —  a  humble  invention  of  my  own  — 
was  to  request  the  candidate  to  put  out  his  tongue,  whereupon  the  First 
Centipede  would  say,  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  not  intended  for  the  ear  of  the  vic 
tim,  "  Diabolus,  fetch  me  the  red-hot  iron  ! "  The  expedition  with  which 
that  tongue  would  disappear  was  simply  ridiculous. 

Our  meetings  were  held  in  various  barns,  at  no  stated  periods,  but  as 
circumstances  suggested.  Any  member  had  a  right  to  call  a  meeting.  Each 
boy  who  failed  to  report  himself  was  fined  one  cent.  Whenever  a  member 
had  reasons  for  thinking  that  another  member  would  be  unable  to  attend, 
he  called  a  meeting.  For  instance,  immediately  on  learning  the  death  of 
Harry  Blake's  great-grandfather,  I  issued  a  call.  By  these  simple  and  in 
genious  measures  we  kept  our  treasury  in  a  flourishing  condition,  sometimes 
having  on  hand  as  much  as  a  dollar  and  a  quarter. 

I  have  said  that  the  society  had  no  especial  object.  It  is  true,  there  was  a 
tacit  understanding  among  us  that  the  Centipedes  were  to  stand  by  one 
another  on  all  occasions,  though  I  don't  remember  that  they  did ;  but  further 
than  this  we  had  no  purpose,  unless  it  was  to  accomplish  as  a  body  the  same 


276  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [May, 

amount  of  mischief  which  we  were  sure  to  do  as  individuals.  To  mystify  the 
staid  and  slow-going  Rivermouthians  was  our  frequent  pleasure.  Several 
of  our  pranks  won  us  such  a  reputation  among  the  townsfolk,  that  we  were 
credited  with  having  a  large  finger  in  whatever  went  amiss  in  the  place. 

One  morning  about  a  week  after  my  admission  into  the  secret  order,  the 
quiet  citizens  awoke  to  find  that  the  sign-boards  of  all  the  principal  streets 
had  changed  places  during  the  night.  People  who  went  trustfully  to  sleep 
in  Currant  Square  opened  their  eyes  in  Honeysuckle  Terrace.  Jones's 
Avenue  at  the  north  end  had  suddenly  become  Walnut  Street,  and  Peanut 
Street  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Confusion  reigned.  The  town  authorities 
took  the  matter  in  hand  without  delay,  and  six  of  the  Temple  Grammar 
School  boys  were  summoned  to  appear  before  Justice  Clapham. 

Having  tearfully  disclaimed  to  my  grandfather  all  knowledge  of  the  transac 
tion,  I  disappeared  from  the  family  circle,  and  was  not  apprehended  until 
late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  Captain  dragged  me  ignominiously  from  the 
hay-mow  and  conducted  me,  more  dead  than  alive,  to  the  office  of  Justice 
Clapham.  Here  I  encountered  five  other  pallid  culprits,  who  had  been  fished 
out  of  divers  coal-bins,  garrets,  and  chicken-coops,  to  answer  the  demands  of 
the  outraged  laws.  (Charley  Marden  had  hidden  himself  in  a  pile  of  gravel 
behind  his  father's  house,  and  looked  like  a  recently  exhumed  mummy.) 

There  was  not  a  particle  of  evidence  against  us  ;  and,  indeed,  we  were 
wholly  innocent  of  the  offence.  The  trick,  as  was  afterwards  proved,  had 
been  played  by  a  party  of  soldiers  stationed  at  the  fort  in  the  harbor.  We 
were  indebted  for  our  arrest  to  Master  Conway,  who  had  slyly  dropped  a 
hint,  within  the  hearing  of  Selectman  Mudge,  to  the  effect  that  "young  Bai 
ley  and  his  five  cronies  could  tell  something  about  them  signs."  When  he 
was  called  upon  to  make  good  his  assertion,  he  was  considerably  more  terri 
fied  than  the  Centipedes,  though  they  wefe  ready  to  sink  into  their  shoes. 

At  our  next  meeting,  it  was  unanimously  resolved  that  Conway's  animos 
ity  should  not  be  quietly  submitted  to.  He  had  sought  to  inform  against  us 
'  in  the  stage-coach  business  ;  he  had  volunteered  to  carry  Pettingil's  "  little 
bill "  for  twenty-four  ice-creams  to  Charley  Marden's  father  ;  and  now  he 
had  caused  us  to  be  arraigned  before  Justice  Clapham  on  a  charge  equally 
groundless  and  painful.  After  much  noisy  discussion  a  plan  of  retaliation 
was  agreed  upon. 

There  was  a  certain  slim,  mild  apothecary  in  the  town,  by  the  name  of 
Meeks.  It  was  generally  given  out  that  Mr.  Meeks  had  a  vague  desire  to 
get  married,  but,  being  a  shy  and  timorous  youth,  lacked  the  moral  courage 
to  do  so.  It  was  also  well  known  that  the  Widow  Conway  had  not  buried 
her  heart  with  the  late  lamented.  As  to  her  shyness,  that  was  not  so  clear. 
Indeed,  her  attentions  to  Mr.  Meeks,  whose  mother  she  might  have  been, 
were  of  a  nature  not  to  be  misunderstood,  and  were  not  misunderstood  by 
any  one  but  Mr.  Meeks  himself. 

The  widow  carried  on  a  dress-making  establishment  at  her  residence  on 
the  corner  opposite  Meeks's  drug-store,  and  kept  a  wary  eye  on  all  the 
young  ladies  from  Miss  Dorothy  Gibb's  Female  Institute  who  patronized  the 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  277 

shop  for  soda-water,  acid-drops,  and  slate-pencils.  In  the  afternoon  the 
widow  was  usually  seen  seated,  smartly  dressed,  at  her  window  up  stairs, 
casting  destructive  glances  across  the  street,  —  the  artificial  roses  in  her  cap 
and  her  whole  languishing  manner  saying  as  plainly  as  a  label  on  a  prescrip 
tion,  "  To  be  Ta.ken  Immediately  !  "  But  Mr.  Meeks  did  n't  take. 

The  lady's  fondness,  and  the  gentleman's  blindness,  were  topics  ably 
handled  at  every  sewing-circle  in  the  town.  It  was  through  these  two  luck 
less  individuals  that  we  proposed  to  strike  a  deadly  blow  at  the  common 
enemy.  To  kill  less  than  three  birds  with  one  stone,  did  not  suit  our  san 
guinary  purpose.  We  disliked  the  widow  not  so  much  for  her  sentimental 
ity  as  for  being  the  mother  of  Bill  Conway  ;  we  disliked  Mr.  Meeks,  not  be 
cause  he  was  insipid,  like  his  own  sirups,  but  because  the  widow  loved  him ; 
Bill  Conway  we  hated  for  himself. 

Late  one  dark  Saturday  night  in  September,  we  carried  our  plan  into 
effect.  On  the  following  morning,  as  the  orderly  citizens  wended  their  way 
to  church  past  the  widow's  abode,  their  sober  faces  relaxed  at  beholding  over 
her  front  door  the  well-known  gilt  Mortar  and  Pestle  which  usually  stood  on 
the  top  of  a  pole  on  the  opposite  corner ;  while  the  passers  on  that  side  of 
the  street  were  equally  amused  and  scandalized  at  seeing  a  placard  bearing 
the  following  announcement  tacked  to  the  druggist's  window-shutters  :  — 


a 


The  naughty  cleverness  of  the  joke  (which  I  should  be  sorry  to  defend) 
was  recognized  at  once.  It  spread  like  wildfire  over  the  town,  and,  though 
the  mortar  and  the  placard  were  speedily  removed,  our  triumph  was  com 
plete.  The  whole  community  was  on  the  broad  grin,  and  our  participation 
in  the  affair  seemingly  unsuspected.  It  was  those  wicked  soldiers  at  the 
Fort ! 

CHAPTER  X. 

I  FIGHT   CONWAY. 

THERE  was  one  person,  however,  who  cherished  a  strong  suspicion  that 
the  Centipedes  had  had  a  hand  in  the  business  ;  and  that  person  was  Conway. 
His  red  hair  seemed  to  change  to  a  livelier  red,  and  his  sallow  cheeks  to  a 
deeper  sallow,  as  we  glanced  at  him  stealthily  over  the  tops  of  our  slates  the 
next  day  in  school.  He  knew  we  were  watching  him,  and  made  sundry 
mouths  and  scowled  in  the  most  threatening  way  over  his  sums. 

Conway  had  an  accomplishment  peculiarly  his  own,  —  that  of  throwing  his 
thumbs  out  of  joint  at  will.  Sometimes  while  absorbed  in  study,  or  on 
becoming  nervous  at  recitation,  he  performed  the  feat  unconsciously. 
Throughout  this  entire  morning,  his  thumbs  were  observed  to  be  in  a 
chronic  state  of  dislocation,  indicating  great  mental  agitation  on  the  part 


278  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [May, 

of  the  owner.  We  fully  expected  an  outbreak  from  him  at  recess  ;  but  the 
intermission  passed  off  tranquilly,  somewhat  to  our  disappointment. 

At  the  close  of  the  afternoon  session,  it  happened  that  Binny  Wallace 
and  myself,  having  got  swamped  in  our  Latin  exercise,  were  detained  in 
school  for  the  purpose  of  refreshing  our  memories  with  a  page  of  Mr.  An 
drews1^  perplexingly  irregular  verbs.  Binny  Wallace,  finishing  his  task 
first,  was  dismissed.  I  followed  shortly  after,  and,  on  stepping  into  the 
play-ground,  saw  my  little  friend  plastered,  as  it  were,  up  against  the  fence, 
and  Conway  standing  in  front  of  him  ready  to  deliver  a  blow  on  the  up 
turned,  unprotected  face,  whose  gentleness  would  have  stayed  any  arm  but 
a  coward's. 

Seth  Rodgers,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  was  leaning  against 
the  pump  lazily  enjoying  the  sport;  but  on  seeing  me  sweep  across 
the  yard,  whirling  my  strap  of  books  in  the  air  like  a  sling,  he  called  out 
lustily,  "  Lay  low,  Conway  !  here  's  young  Bailey  !  " 

Conway  turned  just  in  time  to  catch  on  his  shoulder  the  blow  intended  for 
his  head.  He  reached  forward  one  of  his  long  arms  —  he  had  arms  like  a 
windmill,  that  boy  —  and,  grasping  me  by  the  hair,  tore  out  quite  a  respecta 
ble  handful.  The  tears  flew  to  my  eyes,  but  they  were  not  tears  of  pain  ; 
they  were  merely  the  involuntary  tribute  which  nature  paid  to  the  departed 
tresses. 

In  a  second  my  little  jacket  lay  on  the  ground,  and  I  stood  on  guard,  rest 
ing  lightly  on  my  right  leg  and  keeping  my  eye  fixed  steadily  on  Conway's,  — 
in  all  of  which  I  was  faithfully  following  the  instructions  of  Phil  Adams, 
whose  father  subscribed  to  a  sporting  journal. 

Conway  also  threw  himself  into  a  defensive  attitude,  and  there  we  were, 
glaring  at  each  other,  motionless,  neither  of  us  disposed  to  risk  an  attack, 
but  both  on  the  alert  to  resist  one.  There  is  no  telling  how  long  we  might 
have  remained  in  that  absurd  position,  had  we  not  been  interrupted. 

It  was  a  custom  with  the  larger  pupils  to  return  to  the  play-ground  after 
school,  and  play  base-ball  until  sundown.  The  town  authorities  had  prohib 
ited  ball-playing  on  the  Square,  and,  there  being  no  other  available  place,  the 
boys  fell  back  perforce  on  the  school-yard.  Just  at  this  crisis,  a  dozen  or 
so  of  the  Templars  entered  the  gate,  and,  seeing  at  a  glance  the  belligerent 
status  of  Conway  and  myself,  dropped  bat  and  ball,  and  rushed  to  the  spot 
where  we  stood. 

"  Is  it  a  fight  ?  "  asked  Phil  Adams,  who  saw  by  our  freshness  that  we  had 
not  yet  got  to  work. 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  fight,"  I  answered,  "  unless  Conway  will  ask  Wallace's  par 
don,  promise  never  to  hector  me  in  future,  —  and  put  back  my  hair  !  " 

This  last  condition  was  rather  a  staggerer. 

"  I  sha'  n't  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Conway,  sulkily. 

"  Then  the  thing  must  go  on,"  said  Adams,  with  dignity.  "  Rodgers,  as  I 
understand  it,  is  your  second,  Conway  ?  Bailey,  come  here.  What  's  the 
row  about  ?  " 

"  He  was  thrashing  Binny  Wallace." 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  279 

"  No,  I  was  n't,"  interrupted  Conway ;  "  but  I  was  going  to,  because  he 
knows  who  put  Meeks's  mortar  aver  our  door.  And  I  know  well  enough 
who  did  it ;  it  was  that  sneaking  little  mulatter  !  "  —  pointing  at  me. 

u  O,  by  George  !  "  I  cried,  reddening  at  the  insult. 

"  Cool  is  the  word,"  said  Adams,  as  he  bound  a  handkerchief  round  my 
head,  and  carefully  tucked  away  the  long  straggling  locks  that  offered  a 
tempting  advantage  to  the  enemy.  "  Who  ever  heard  of  a  fellow  with  such 
a  head  of  hair  going  into  action  ! "  muttered  Phil,  twitching  the  handker 
chief  to  ascertain  if  it  were  securely  tied.  He  then  loosened  my  gallowses 
(braces),  and  buckled  them  tightly  above  my  hips.  "Now,  then,  bantam, 
never  say  die  !  " 

Conway  regarded  these  business-like  preparations  with  evident  misgiving, 
for  he  called  Rodgers  to  his  side,  and  had  himself  arrayed  in  a  similar  man 
ner,  though  his  hair  was  cropped  so  close  that  you  could  n't  have  taken  hold 
of  it  with  a  pair  of  tweezers. 

"  Is  your  man  ready  ?  "  asked  Phil  Adams,  addressing  Rodgers. 

"  Ready  ! " 

"  Keep  your  back  to  the  gate,  Tom,"  whispered  Phil  in  my  ear,  "  and 
you  '11  have  the  sun  in  his  eyes." 

Behold  us  once  more  face  to  face,  like  David  and  the  Philistine.  Look 
at  us  as  long  as  you  may  ;  for  this  is  all  you  shall  see  of  the  combat.  Ac 
cording  to  my  thinking,  the  hospital  teaches  a  better  lesson  than  the  battle 
field.  I  will  tell  you  about  my  black  eye,  and  my  swollen  lip,  if  you  will ;  but 
not  a  word  of  the  fight. 

You  '11  get  no  description  of  it  from  me,  simply  because  I  think  it  would 
prove  very  poor  reading,  and  not  because  I  consider  my  revolt  against  Con- 
way's  tyranny  unjustifiable. 

I  had  borne  Conway's  persecutions  for  many  months  with  lamb-like  pa 
tience.  I  might  have  shielded  myself  by  appealing  to  Mr.  Grimshaw  ;  but 
no  boy  in  the  Temple  Grammar  School  could  do  that  without  losing  caste. 
Whether  this  was  just  or  not,  does  n't  matter  a  pin,  since  it  was  so,  —  a  tra 
ditionary  law  of  the  place.  The  personal  inconvenience  I  suffered  from  my 
tormentor  was  nothing  to  the  pain  he  inflicted  on  me  indirectly  by  his  per 
sistent  cruelty  to  little  Binny  Wallace.  I  should  have  lacked  the  spirit  of  a 
hen  if  I  had  not  resented  it  finally.  I  am  glad  that  I  faced  Conway,  and 
asked  no  favors,  and  got  rid  of  him  forever.  I  am  glad  that  Phil  Adams 
taught  me  to  box,  and  I  say  to  all  youngsters :  Learn  to  box,  to  ride, 
to  pull  an  oar,  and  to  swim.  The  occasion  may  come  round,  when  a  decent 
proficiency  in  one  or  the  rest  of  these  accomplishments  will  be  of  service  to 
you. 

In  one  of  the  best  books  *  ever  written  for  boys  are  these  words  :  — 

"  Learn  to  box,  then,  as  you  learn  to  play  cricket  and  football.  Not  one 
of  you  will  be  the  worse,  but  very  much  the  better,  for  learning  to  box  well. 
Should  you  never  have  to  use  it  in  earnest,  there  's  no  exercise  in  the  world 
so  good  for  the  temper,  and  for  the  muscles  of  the  back  and  legs. 

*  "Tom  Brown's  School  Days  at  Rugby." 


280  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [May 

"  As  for  fighting,  keep  out  of  it,  if  you  can,  by  all  means.  When  the  tim< 
comes,  if  ever  it  should,  that  you  have  to  say  *  Yes '  or  *  No  '  to  a  challeng( 
to  fight,  say  *  No  '  if  you  can,  —  only  take  care  you  make  it  plain  to  yourself 
why  you  say  'No.'  It's  a  proof  of  the  highest  courage,  if  done  from  true 
Christian  motives.  It 's  quite  right  and  justifiable,  if  done  from  a  simple 
aversion  to  physical  pain  and  danger.  But  don't  say  *  No  '  because  you  feai 
a  licking  and  say  or  think  it 's  because  you  fear  God,  for  that 's  neithei 
Christian  nor  honest.  And  if  you  do  fight,  fight  it  out ;  and  don't  give  ir 
while  you  can  stand  and  see." 

And  don't  give  in  when  you  can't !  say  I.  For  I  could  stand  very  little 
and  see  not  at  all  (having  pummelled  the  school-pump  for  the  last  twenty 
seconds),  when  Conway  retired  from  the  field.  As  Phil  Adams  stepped  uj 
to  shake  hands  with  me,  he  received  a  telling  blow  in  the  stomach ;  for  al 
the  fight  was  not  out  of  me  yet,  and  I  mistook  him  for  a  new  adversary. 

Convinced  of  my  error,  I  accepted  his  congratulations,  with  those  of  the 
other  boys,  blandly  and  blindly.  I  remember  that  Binny  Wallace  wanted  t( 
give  me  his  silver  pencil-case.  The  gentle  soul  had  stood  throughout  the 
contest  with  his  face  turned  to  the  fence,  suffering  untold  agony. 

A  good  wash  at  the  pump,  and  a  cold  key  applied  to  my  eye,  refreshed  me 
amazingly.  Escorted  by  two  or  three  of  the  schoolfellows,  I  walked  home 
through  the  pleasant  autumn  twilight,  battered  but  triumphant.  As  I  wenl 
along,  my  cap  cocked  on  one  side  to  keep  the  chilly  air  from  my  eye,  I  fell 
that  I  was  not  only  following  my  nose,  but  following  it  so  closely,  that  I  was 
in  some  danger  of  treading  on  it.  I  seemed  to  have  nose  enough  for  the 
whole  party.  My  left  cheek,  also,  was  puffed  out  like  a  dumpling.  I  could  n'1 
help  saying  to  myself,  "  If  this  is  victory,  how  about  that  other  fellow  ? >; 

"  Tom,"  said  Harry  Blake,  hesitating. 

"Well?" 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Grimshaw  looking  out  of  the  recitation-room  window 
just  as  we  left  the  yard  ?  " 

"  No  ;  was  he,   though  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 
,    "  Then  he  must  have  seen  all  the  row." 

"  Should  n't  wonder." 

"  No,  he  did  n't,"  broke  in  Adams,  "  or  he  would  have  stopped  it  short 
metre  ;  but  I  guess  he  saw  you  pitching  into  the  pump,  —  which  you  did 
uncommonly  strong,  —  and  of  course  he  smelt  mischief  directly." 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped  now,"  I  reflected. 

"  —  As  the  monkey  said  when  he  fell  out  of  the  cocoanut-tree,"  added 
Charley  Marden,  trying  to  make  me  laugh. 

It  was  early  candle-light  when  we  reached  the  house.  Miss  Abigail,  open 
ing  the  front  door,  started  back  at  my  hilarious  appearance.  I  tried  to 
smile  upon  her  sweetly,  but  the  smile,  rippling  over  my  swollen  cheek,  and 
dying  away  like  a  spent  wave  on  my  nose,  produced  an  expression  of  which 
Miss  Abigail  declared  she  had  never  seen  the  like  excepting  on  the  face  of 
a  Chinese  idol. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  281 

She  hustled  me  unceremoniously  into  the  presence  of  my  grandfather  in 
the  sitting-room.  Captain  Nutter,  as  the  recognized  professional  warrior  of 
our  family,  could  not  consistently  take  me  to  task  for  fighting  Conway ;  nor 
was  he  disposed  to  do  so  ;  for  the  Captain  was  well  aware  of  the  long-con 
tinued  provocation  I  had  endured. 

"  Ah,  you  rascal !  "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  after  hearing  my  story,  "just 
like  me  when  I  was  young,  —  always  in  one  kind  of  trouble  or  another.  I 
believe  it  runs  in  the  family." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Abigail,  without  the  faintest  expression  on  her  coun 
tenance,  "  that  a  table-spoonful  of  hot-dro —  " 

The  Captain  interrupted  Miss  Abigail  peremptorily,  directing  her  to  make 
a  shade  out  of  card-board  and  black  silk,  to  tie  over  my  eye.     Miss  Abigail 
must  have  been  possessed  with  the  idea  that  I  had  taken  up  pugilism  as  a 
profession,  for  she  turned  out  no  fewer  than  six  of  these  blinders. 
"  They  '11  be  handy  to  have  in  the  house,"  says  Miss  Abigail,  grimly. 
Of  course,  so  great  a  breach  of  discipline  was  not  to  be  passed  over  by 
Mr.  Grimshaw.     He  had,  as  we  suspected,  witnessed  the  closing  scene  of  the 
fight  from  the  school-room  window,  and  the  next  morning,  after  prayers,  I 
was  not  wholly  unprepared  when  Master  Conway  and  myself  were  called  up 
to  the  desk  for  examination.     Conway,  with  a  piece  of  court-plaster  in  the 
shape  of  a  Maltese  cross  on  his  right  cheek,  and  I  with  the  silk  patch  over 
my  left  eye,  caused  a  general  titter  through  the  room. 
"  Silence  !  "  said  Mr.  Grimshaw,  sharply. 

As  the  reader  is  already  familiar  with  the  leading  points  in  the  case  of 
Bailey  'versus  Conway,  I  shall  not  report  the  trial  further  than  to  say  that 
Adams,  Marden,  and  several  other*  pupils  testified  to  the  fact  that  Conway 
had  imposed  on  me  ever  since  my  first  day  at  the  Temple  School.  Their 
evidence  also  went  to  show  that  Conway  was  a  quarrelsome  character  gen 
erally.  Bad  for  Conway.  Seth  Rodgers,  on  the  part  of  his  friend,  proved 
that  I  had  struck  the  first  blow.  That  was  bad  for  me. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Binny  Wallace,  holding  up  his  hand  for  permis 
sion  to  speak,  "  Bailey  did  n't  fight  on  his  own  account ;  he  fought  on  my 
account,  and,  if  you  please,  sir,  I  am  the  boy  to  be  blamed,  for  I  was  the 
cause  of  the  trouble." 

This  drew  out  the  story  of  Conway's  harsh  treatment  of  the  smaller  boys. 
As  Binny  related  the  wrongs  of  his  playfellows,  saying  very  little  of  his  own 
grievances,  I  noticed  that  Mr.  Grimshaw's  hand,  unknown  to  himself  perhaps, 
rested  lightly  from  time  to  time  on  Wallace's  sunny  hair.  The  examination 
finished,  Mr.  Grimshaw  leaned  on  the  desk  thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said  :  — 

"  Every  boy  in  this  school  knows  that  it  is  against  the  rules  to  fight.  If 
one  boy  maltreats  another,  within  school-bounds,  or  within  school-hours,  that 
is  a  matter  for  me  to  settle.  The  case  should  be  laid  before  me.  I  disap 
prove  of  tale-bearing,  I  never  encourage  it  in  the  slightest  degree  ;  but  when 
one  pupil  systematically  persecutes  a  schoolmate,  it  is  the  duty  of  some  head- 
boy  to  inform  me.  No  pupil  has  a  right  to  take  the  law  into  his  own  hands. 


282  The   William  Henry  Letters.  [May, 

If  there  is  any  fighting  to  be  done,  I  am  the  proper  person  to  do  it.  I  dis 
approve  of  boys'  fighting ;  it  is  unnecessary  and  unchristian.  In  the  pres 
ent  instance,  I  consider  every  large  boy  in  this  school  at  fault ;  but  as  the 
offence  is  one  of  omission,  rather  than  commission,  my  punishment  must 
rest  only  on  the  two  boys  convicted  of  misdemeanor.  Conway  loses  his 
recess  for  a  month,  and  Bailey  has  a  page  added  to  his  Latin  lessons  for 
the  next  four  recitations.  I  now  request  Bailey  and  Conway  to  shake  hands 
in  the  presence  of  the  school,  and  acknowledge  their  regret  at  what  has 
occurred." 

Conway  and  I  approached  each  other  slowly  and  cautiously,  as  if  we  were 
bent  upon  another  hostile  collision.  We  clasped  hands  in  the  tamest  man 
ner  imaginable,  and  Conway  mumbled,  "  I  'm  sorry  I  fought  with  you." 

"  I  think  you  are,"  I  replied,  dryly,  "  and  I  'm  sorry  I  had  to  thrash  you." 

"  You  can  go  to  your  seats,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw,  turning  his  face  aside  to 
hide  a  smile.  I  am  sure  my  apology  was  a  very  good  one. 

I  never  had  any  more  trouble  with  Conway.  He  and  his  shadow,  Seth 
Rodgers,  gave  me  a  wide  berth  for  many  months.  Nor  was  Binny  Wallace 
subjected  to  further  molestation.  Miss  Abigail's  sanitary  stores,  including 
a  bottle  of  opodeldoc,  were  never  called  into  requisition.  The  six  black  silk 
patches,  with  their  elastic  strings,  are  still  dangling  from  a  beam  in  the  garret 
of  the  Nutter  House,  waiting  for  me  to  get  into  fresh  difficulties. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


THE  WILLIAM   HENRY  LETTERS. 

ELEVENTH  PACKET. 

Georgianna's  Letter  to  William  Henry. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER  BILLY,  - 
Kitty  is  n't  drowned.  I  Ve  got  ever  so  many  new  dolls.  My  grand 
mother  went  to  town,  not  the  same  day  my  kitty  did  that,  but  the  next  day,  and 
she  brought  me  home  a  new  doll,  and  that  same  day  she  went  there  my  father 
went  to  Boston,  and  he  brought  me  home  a  very  big  one,  —  no,  not  very,  but 
quite  big,. —  and  Aunt  Phebe  went  a  visiting  to  somebody's  house  that  very 
day  and  she  brought  me  home  a  doll,  and  while  she  was  gone  away  Hannah 
Jane  dressed  over  one  of  Matilda's  old  ones  new,  and  none  of  the  folks  knew 
that  the  others  were  going  to  give  me  a  doll,  and  then  Uncle  J.  said  that 
if  it  was  the  family  custom  to  give  Georgianna  a  doll,  he  would  give  Geor- 
gianna  a  doll,  and  he  went  to  the  field  and  catched  the  colt,  and  tackled  him 
up  into  the  riding  wagon  on  purpose,  and  then  he  started  off  to  town,  and 
when  he  rode  up  to  our  back  door  there  was  a  great  dolly,  the  biggest  one 


:,il^^ 


OUR   YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


JUNE,    1869. 


No.  VI. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  XI. 

ALL  ABOUT  GYPSY. 

HIS  record  of  my  life  at  Ri vermouth  would  be 
strangely  incomplete  did  I  not  devote  an  entire 
chapter  to  Gypsy.  I  had  other  pets,  of  course  ; 
for  what  healthy  boy  could  long  exist  without 
numerous  friends  in  the  animal  kingdom  ?  I 
had  two  white  mice  that  were  forever  gnawing 
their  way  out  of  a  pasteboard  chateau,  and 
crawling  over  my  face  when  I  lay  asleep.  I 
used  to  keep  the  pink-eyed  little  beggars  in  my 
bedroom,  greatly  to  the  annoyance  of  Miss 
Abigail,  who  was  constantly  fancying  that  one 
of  the  mice  had  secreted  itself  somewhere 
about  her  person. 

I  also  owned  a  dog,  a  terrier,  who  managed 
in  some  inscrutable  way  to  pick  a  quarrel  with 
the  moon,  and  on  bright  nights  kept  up  such 
a  ki-yi-ing  in  our  back  garden,  that  we  were 
finally  forced  to  dispose  of  him  at  private 
sale.  He  was  purchased  by  Mr.  Oxford,  the 
butcher.  I  protested  against  the  arrangement, 
and  ever  afterwards,  when  we  had  sausages 
from  Mr.  Oxford's  shop,  I  made  believe  I  de 
tected  in  them  certain  evidences  that  Cato  had  been  foully  dealt  with. 

Of  birds  I  had  no  end,  —  robins,  purple-martins,  wrens,  bulfinches,  bob 
olinks,  ringdoves,  and  pigeons.     At  one  time  I  took  solid  comfort  in  the 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.   VI.  25 


346  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [June, 

iniquitous  society  of  a  dissipated  old  parrot,  who  talked  so  terribly,  that  the 
Rev.  Wibird  Hawkins,  happening  to  get  a  sample  of  Poll's  vituperative  pow 
ers,  pronounced  him  "  a  benighted  heathen,"  and  advised  the  Captain  to  get 
rid  of  him.  A  brace  of  turtles  supplanted  the  parrot  in  my  affections  ;  the 
turtles  gave  way  to  rabbits  ;  and  the  rabbits  in  turn  yielded  to  the  superior 
charms  of  a  small  monkey,  which  the  Captain  bought  of  a  sailor  lately  from 
the  coast  of  Africa. 

But  Gypsy  was  the  prime  favorite,  in  spite  of  many  rivals.  I  never  grew 
weary  of  her.  She  was  the  most  knowing  little  thing  in  the  world.  Her 
proper  sphere  in  life  —  and  the  one  to  which  she  ultimately  attained  —  was 
the  sawdust  arena  of  a  travelling  circus.  There  was  nothing  short  of  the 
three  R's,  reading,  'riting,  and  'rithmetic,  that  Gypsy  couldn't  be  taught. 
The  gift  of  speech  was  not  hers,  but  the  faculty  of  thought  was.  She  com 
bined  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  with  the  harmlessness  of  the  dove. 

My  little  friend,  to  be  sure,  was  not  exempt  from  certain  graceful  weak 
nesses,  inseparable,  perhaps,  from  the  female  character.  She  was  very  pretty, 
—  and  she  knew  it.  She  was  also  passionately  fond  of  dress,  —  by  which  I 
mean  her  best  harness.  When  she  had  this  on,  her  curvetings  and  pran- 
cings  were  laughable,  though  in  ordinary  tackle  she  went  along  demurely 
enough.  There  was  something  in  the  enamelled  leather  and  the  silver- 
washed  mountings  that  chimed  with  her  artistic  sense.  To  have  her  mane 
braided,  and  a  rose  or  a  pansy  stuck  into  her  forelock,  was  to  make  her  too 
conceited  for  anything. 

She  had  another  trait  not  rare  among  her  sex.  She  liked  the  attentions 
of  young  gentlemen,  while  the  society  of  girls  bored  her.  She  would  drag 
them,  sulkily,  in  the  cart ;  but  as  for  permitting  one  of  them  in  the  saddle, 
the  idea  was  preposterous.  Once  when  Pepper  Whitcomb's  sister,  in  spite 
of  our  remonstrances,  ventured  to  mount  her,  Gypsy  gave  a  little  indignant 
neigh,  and  tossed  the  gentle  Emma  heels  over  head  in  no  time.  But  with 
any  of  the  boys  the  mare  was  as  docile  as  a  lamb. 

Her  treatment  of  the  several  members  of  the  family  was  comical.  For 
the  Captain  she  entertained  a  wholesome  respect,  and  was  always  on  her 
good  behavior  when  he  was  around.  As  to  Miss  Abigail,  Gypsy  simply 
laughed  at  her,  —  literally  laughed,  contracting  her  upper  lip  and  displaying 
all  her  snow-white  teeth,  as  if  something  about  Miss  Abigail  struck  her, 
Gypsy,  as  being  extremely  ridiculous. 

Kitty  Collins,  for  some  reason  or  another,  was  afraid  of  the  pony,  or  pre 
tended  to  be.  The  sagacious  little  animal  knew  it,  of  course,  and  frequently, 
when  Kitty  was  hanging  out  clothes  near  the  stable,  the  mare,  being  loose  in 
the  yard,  would  make  short  plunges  at  her.  Once  Gypsy  seized  the  basket 
of  clothes-pins  with  her  teeth,  and  rising  on  her  hind  legs,  pawing  the  air 
with  her  fore  feet,  followed  Kitty  clear  up  to  the  scullery  steps. 

That  part  of  the  yard  was  shut  off  from  the  rest  by  a  gate  ;  but  no  gate 
was  proof  against  Gypsy's  ingenuity.  She  could  let  down  bars,  lift  up 
latches,  draw  bolts,  and  turn  all  sorts  of  buttons.  This  accomplishment 
rendered  it  hazardous  for  Miss  Abigail  or  Kitty  to  leave  any  eatables  on  the 


1869.] 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


347 


kitchen  table  near  the  window.  On  one  occasion  Gypsy  put  in  her  head  and 
lapped  up  six  custard  pies  that  had  been  placed  by  the  casement  to  cool. 

An  account  of  my  young  lady's  various  pranks  would  fill  a  thick  volume. 
A  favorite  trick  of  hers,  on  being  requested  to  "  walk  like  Miss  Abigail,"  was 
to  assume  a  little  skittish  gait  so  true  to  nature  that  Miss  Abigail  herself 
was  obliged  to  admit  the  cleverness  of  the  imitation. 

The  idea  of  putting  Gypsy  through  a  systematic  course  of  instruction  was 
suggested  to  me  by  a  visit  to  the  circus  which  gave  an  annual  performance 
in  Rivermouth.  This  show  embraced,  among  its  attractions,  a  number  of 
trained  Shetland  ponies,  and  I  determined  that  Gypsy  should  likewise  have 
the  benefit  of  a  liberal  education.  I  succeeded  in  teaching  her  to  waltz,  to 
fire  a  pistol  by  tugging  at  a  string  tied  to  the  trigger,  to  lie  down  dead,  to 
wink  one  eye,  and  to  execute  many  other  feats  of  a  difficult  nature.  She  took 
to  her  studies  admirably,  and  enjoyed  the  whole  thing  as  much  as  anybody. 

The  monkey  was  a  perpetual  marvel  to  Gypsy.  They  became  bosom- 
friends  in  an  incredibly  brief  period,  and  were  never  easy  out  of  each  oth 
er's  sight.  Prince  Zany  —  that 's  what  Pepper  Whitcomb  and  I  christened 
him  one  day,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  monkey,  who  bit  a  piece  out  of  Pep 
per's  nose  —  resided  in  the  stable,  and  went  to  roost  every  night  on  the 
pony's  back,  where  I  usually  found  him  in  the  morning.  Whenever  I  rode 
out,  I  was  obliged  to  secure  his  Highness  the  Prince  with  a  stout  cord  to 
the  fence,  he  chattering  all  the  time  like  a  madman. 


One  afternoon  as  I  was  cantering  through  the  crowded  part  of  the  town,  I 
noticed  that  the  people  in  the  street  stopped,  stared  at  me,  and  fell  to  laugh- 


348  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [June, 

ing.  I  turned  round  in  the  saddle,  and  there  was  Zany,  with  a  great  burdock 
leaf  in  his  paw,  perched  up  behind  me  on  the  crupper,  as  solemn  as  a  judge. 

After  a  few  months,  poor  Zany  sickened  mysteriously,  and  died.  The 
dark  thought  occurred  to  me  then,  and  comes  back  to  me  now  with  redoub 
led  force,  that  Miss  Abigail  must  have  given  him  some  hot-drops.  Zany  left 
a  large  circle  of  sorrowing  friends,  if  not  relatives.  Gypsy,  I  think,  never 
entirely  recovered  from  the  shock  occasioned  by  his  early  demise.  She  be 
came  fonder  of  me,  though  ;  and  one  of  her  cunningest  demonstrations  was 
to  escape  from  the  stable-yard,  and  trot  up  to  the  door  of  the  Temple  Gram 
mar  School,  where  I  would  discover  her  at  recess  patiently  waiting  for  me, 
with  her  fore  feet  on  the  second  step,  and  wisps  of  straw  standing  out  all 
over  her. 

I  should  fail  if  I  tried  to  tell  you  how  dear  the  pony  was  to  me.  Even 
hard,  unloving  men  become  attached  to  the  horses  they  take  care  of;  so  I, 
who  was  neither  unloving  nor  hard,  grew  to  love  every  glossy  hair  of  the 
pretty  little  creature  that  depended  on  me  for  her  soft  straw  bed  and  her 
daily  modicum  of  oats.  In  my  prayer  at  night  I  never  forgot  to  mention 
Gypsy  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  —  generally  setting  forth  her  claims  first. 

Whatever  relates  to  Gypsy  belongs  properly  to  this  narrative  ;  therefore 
I  offer  no  apology  for  rescuing  from  oblivion,  and  boldly  printing  here,  a 
short  composition  which  I  wrote  in  the  early  part  of  my  first  quarter  at  the 
Temple  Grammar  School.  It  is  my  maiden  effort  in  a  difficult  art,  and  is, 
perhaps,  lacking  in  those  graces  of  thought  and  style  which  are  reached  only 
after  the  severest  practice. 

Every  Wednesday  morning,  on  entering  school,  each  pupil  was  expected 
to  lay  his  exercise  on  Mr.  Grimshaw's  desk ;  the  subject  was  usually  select 
ed  by  Mr.  Grimshaw  himself,  the  Monday  previous.  With  a  humor  charac 
teristic  of  him,  our  teacher  had  instituted  two  prizes,  one  for  the  best  and  the 
other  for  the  worst  composition  of  the  month.  The  first  prize  consisted  of  a 
penknife,  or  a  pencil-case,  or  some  such  article  dear  to  the  heart  of  youth  ; 
the  second  prize  entitled  the  winner  to  wear  for  an  hour  or  two  a  sort  of 
conical  paper  cap,  on  the  front  of  which  was  written,  in  tall  letters,  this  mod 
est  admission  :  I  AM  A  DUNCE  !  The  competitor  who  took  prize  No.  2 
was  n't  generally  an  object  of  envy. 

My  pulse  beat  high  with  pride  and  expectation  that  Wednesday  morning, 
as  I  laid  my  essay,  neatly  folded,  on  the  master's  table.  I  firmly  decline  to 
say  which  prize  I  won. 

It  is  no  small-author  vanity  that  induces  me  to  publish  this  stray  leaf  of 
natural  history.  I  lay  it  before  our  young  folks^not  for  their  admiration,  but 
for  their  criticism.  Let  each  reader  take  his  lead-pencil  and  remorselessly 
correct  the  orthography,  the  capitalization,  and  the  punctuation  of  the  essay. 
I  shall  not  feel  a  bit  hurt  at  seeing  my  treatise  cut  all  to  pieces  ;  though  I 
think  highly  of  the  production,  not  on  account  of  its  literary  excellence, 
which  I  candidly  admit  is  not  overpowering,  but  because  it  was  written 
years  and  years  ago  about  Gypsy,  by  a  little  fellow  who,  when  I  strive  to  re 
call  him,  appears  to  me  like  a  reduced  ghost  of  my  present  self ;  but  here  's 
the  composition  to  speak  for  itself;  — 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  349 


I  am  confident  that  any  reader  who  has  ever  had  pets,  birds  or  animals, 
will  forgive  me  for  this  brief  digression. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

WINTER  AT  RIVERMOUTH. 

"  I  GUESS  we  're  going  to  have  a  regular  old-fashioned  snow-storm,"  said 
Captain  Nutter,  one  bleak  December  morning,  casting  a  peculiarly  nautical 
glance  skyward. 

The  Captain  was  always  hazarding  prophecies  about  the  weather,  which 
somehow  never  turned  out  according  to  his  prognostications.  The  vanes  on 
the  church  steeple^  seemed  to  take  fiendish  pleasure  in  humiliating  the  dear 
old  gentleman.  If  he  said  it  was  going  to  be  a  clear  day,  a  dense  sea- fog  was 
pretty  certain  to  set  in  before  noon.  Once  he  caused  a  protracted  drought 
by  assuring  us  every  morning,  for  six  consecutive  weeks,  that  it  would  rain  in 
a  few  hours.  But,  sure  enough,  that  afternoon  it  began  snowing. 

Now  I  had  not  seen  a  snow-storm  since  I  was  eighteen  months  old,  and 


3 SO  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [June, 

of  course  remembered  nothing  about  it.  A  boy  familiar  from  his  infancy 
with  the  rigors  of  our  New  England  winters  can  form  no  idea  of  the  impres 
sion  made  on  me  by  this  natural  phenomenon.  My  delight  and  surprise 
were  as  boundless  as  if  the  heavy  gray  sky  had  let  down  a  shower  of  pond- 
lilies  and  white  roses,  instead  of  snow-flakes.  It  happened  to  be  a  half-holi 
day,  so  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  watch  the  feathery  crystals  whirling  hither 
and  thither  through  the  air.  I  stood  by  the  sitting-room  window  gazing  at 
the  wonder  until  twilight  shut  out  the  novel  scene. 

Several  inches  of  snow  had  already  fallen.  The  rose-bushes  at  the  door 
drooped  with  the  weight  of  their  magical  blossoms,  and  the  two  posts  that 
held  the  garden  gate  were  transformed  into  stately  Turks,  with  white  tur 
bans,  guarding  the  entrance  to  the  Nutter  House. 

The  storm  increased  at  sundown,  and  continued  with  unabated  violence 
through  the  night.  The  next  morning,  when  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  the  sun 
was  shining  brightly,  the  cloudless  heavens  wore  the  tender  azure  of  June, 
and  the  whole  earth  lay  muffled  up  to  the  eyes,  as  it  were,  in  a  thick  mantle 
of  milk-white  down. 

It  was  a  very  deep  snow.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant  (what  would  become  of 
a  New  England  town  or  village  without  its  oldest  inhabitant  ? )  overhauled 
his  almanacs,  and  pronounced  it  the  deepest  snow  we  had  had  for  twenty 
years.  It  could  n't  have  been  much  deeper  without  smothering  us  all.  Our 
street  was  a  sight  to  be  seen,  or,  rather,  it  was  a  sight  not  to  be  seen  ;  for 
very  little  street  was  visible.  One  huge  drift  completely  banked  up  our  front 
door  and  half  covered  my  bedroom  window. 

There  was  no  school  that  day,  for  all  the  thoroughfares  were  impassable. 
By  twelve  o'clock,  however,  the  great  snow-ploughs,  each  drawn  by  four 
yokes  of  oxen,  broke  a  wagon-path  through  the  principal  streets ;  but  the 
foot-passengers  had  a  hard  time  of  it  floundering  in  the  arctic  drifts. 

The  Captain  and  I  cut  a  tunnel,  three  feet  wide  and  six  feet  high,  from  our 
front  door  to  the  sidewalk  opposite.  It  was  a  beautiful  cavern,  with  its  walls 
and  roof  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl  and  diamonds.  I  am  sure  the  ice  palace 
of  the  Russian  Empress,  in  Cowper's  poem,  was  not  a  more  superb  piece  of 
architecture. 

The  thermometer  began  falling  shortly  before  sunset,  and  we  had  the  bit 
terest  cold  night  I  ever  experienced.  This  brought  out  the  Oldest  Inhabi 
tant  again  the  next  day,  —  and  what  a  gay  old  boy  he  was  for  deciding  every 
thing  !  Our  tunnel  was  turned  into  solid  ice.  A  crust  thick  enough  to  bear 
men  and  horses  had  formed  over  the  snow  everywhere,  and  the  air  was  alive 
with  merry  sleigh-bells.  Icy  stalactites,  a  yard  long,  hung  from  the  eaves  of 
the  houses,  and  the  Turkish  sentinels  at  the  gate  looked  as  if  they  intended 
never  to  be  relieved  from  duty. 

So  the  winter  set  in  cold  and  glittering.  Everything  out  of  doors  was 
sheathed  in  silver  mail.  To  quote  from  Charley  Harden,  it  was  "cold 
enough  to  freeze  the  tail  off  a  brass  monkey,"  —  an  observation  which 
seemed  to  me  extremely  happy,  though  I  knew  little  or  nothing  concerning 
the  endurance  of  brass  monkeys,  having  never  seen  one. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  351 

I  had  looked  forward  to  the  advent  of  the  season  with  grave  apprehen 
sions,  nerving  myself  to  meet  dreary  nights  and  monotonous  days  ;  but  sum 
mer  itself  was  not  more  jolly  than  winter  at  Rivermouth.  Snow-balling  at 
school,  skating  on  the  Mill  Dam,  coasting  by  moonlight,  long  rides  behind 
Gypsy  in  a  brand-new  little  sleigh  built  expressly  for  her,  were  sports  no  less 
exhilarating  than  those  which  belonged  to  the  sunny  months.  And  then 
Thanksgiving  !  The  nose  of  Memory  —  why  should  n't  Memory  have  a 
nose  ?  —  dilates  with  pleasure  over  the  rich  perfume  of  Miss  Abigail's  forty 
mince-pies,  each  one  more  delightful  than  the  other,  like  the  Sultan's  forty 
wives.  Christmas  was  another  red-letter  day,  though  it  was  not  so  generally 
observed  in  New  England  as  it  is  now. 

The  great  wood  fire  in  the  tiled  chimney-place  made  our  sitting-room  very 
cheerful  of  winter  nights.  When  the  north  wind  howled  about  the  eaves, 
and  the  sharp  sleet  rattled  against  the  window-panes,  it  was  nice  to  be  so 
warmly  sheltered  from  the  storm.  A  dish  of  apples  and  a  pitcher  of  chilly 
cider  were  always  served  during  the  evening.  The  Captain  had  a  funny  way 
of  leaning  back  in  the  chair,  and  eating  his  apple  with  his  eyes  closed. 
Sometimes  I  played  dominos  with  him,  and  sometimes  Miss  Abigail  read 
aloud  to  us,  pronouncing  "  to  "  toe,  and  sounding  all  the  eds. 

In  a  former  chapter  I  alluded  to  Miss  Abigail's  managing  propensities. 
She  had  effected  many  changes  in  the  Nutter  House  before  I  came  there  to 
live  ;  but  there  was  one  thing  against  which  she  had  long  contended  without 
being  able  to  overcome.  This  was  the  Captain's  pipe.  On  first  taking  com 
mand  of  the  household,  she  prohibited  smoking  in  the  sitting-room,  where  it 
had  been  the  old  gentleman's  custom  to  take  a  whiff  or  two  of  the  fragrant 
weed  after  meals.  The  edict  went  forth,  —  and  so  did  the  pipe.  An  excel 
lent  move,  no  doubt ;  but  then  the  house  was  his,  and  if  he  saw  fit  to  keep  a 
tub  of  tobacco  burning  in  the  middle  of  the  parlor  floor,  he  had  a  perfect 
right  to  do  so.  However,  he  humored  her  in  this  as  in  other  matters,  and 
smoked  by  stealth,  like  a  guilty  creature,  in  the  barn,  or  about  the  gardens. 
That  was  practicable  in  summer,  but  in  winter  the  Captain  was  hard  put  to 
it.  When  he  could  n't  stand  it  longer,  he  retreated  to  his  bedroom  and  bar 
ricaded  the  door.  Such  was  the  position  of  affairs  at  the  time  of  which  I 
write. 

One  morning,  a  few  days  after  the  great  snow,  as  Miss  Abigail  was  dust 
ing  the  chronometer  in  the  hall,  she  beheld  Captain  Nutter  slowly  descend 
ing  the  staircase,  with  a  long  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Miss  Abigail  could 
hardly  credit  her  own  eyes. 

"  Dan'el !  "  she  gasped,  retiring  heavily  on  the  hat-rack. 

The  tone  of  reproach  with  which  this  word  was  uttered  failed  to  produce 
the  slightest  effect  on  the  Captain,  who  merely  removed  the  pipe  from  his 
lips  for  an  instant,  and  blew  a  cloud  into  the  chilly  air.  The  thermometer 
stood  at  two  degrees  below  zero  in  our  hall. 

"  Dan'el !  "  cried  Miss  Abigail,  hysterically,  —  "  Dan'el,  don't  come  near 
me  !  "  Whereupon  she  fainted  away ;  for  the  smell  of  tobacco-smoke 
always  made  her  deadly  sick. 


352  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [June, 

Kitty  Collins  rushed  from  the  kitchen  with  a  basin  of  water,  and  set  to 
work  bathing  Miss  Abigail's  temples  and  chafing  her  hands.  I  thought  my 
grandfather  rather  cruel,  as  he  stood  there  with  a  half-smile  on  his  counte 
nance,  complacently  watching  Miss  Abigail's  sufferings.  When  she  was 
"  brought  to,"  the  Captain  sat  down  beside  her,  and,  with  a  lovely  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  said  softly  :  "  Abigail,  my  dear,  there  ivasrft  any  tobacco  in  that 
pipe  !  It  was  a  new  pipe.  I  fetched  it  down  for  Tom  to  blow  soap-bubbles 
with." 

At  these  words  Kitty  Collins  hurried  away,  her  features  working  strange 
ly.  Several  minutes  later  I  came  upon  her  in  the  scullery  with  the  greater 
portion  of  a  crash  towel  stuffed  into  her  mouth.  "  Miss  Abygil  smelt  the 
terbacca  with  her  oi  ! "  cried  Kitty,  partially  removing  the  cloth,  and  then 
immediately  stopping  herself  up  again. 

The  Captain's  joke  furnished  us  —  that  is,  Kitty  and  me  — with  mirth  for 
many  a  day ;  as  to  Miss  Abigail,  I  think  she  never  wholly  pardoned  him. 
After  this,  Captain  Nutter  gradually  gave  up  smoking,  which  is  an  untidy, 
injurious,  disgraceful,  and  highly  pleasant  habit. 

A  boy's  life  in  a  secluded  New  England  town  in  winter  does  not  afford 
many  points  for  illustration.  Of  course  he  gets  his  ears  or  toes  frost-bitten  ; 
of  course  he  smashes  his  sled  against  another  boy's  ;  of  course  he  bangs  his 
head  on  the  ice  ;  and  he  's  a  lad  of  no  enterprise  whatever,  if  he  does  n't 
manage  to  skate  into  an  eel-hole,  and  be  brought  home  half  drowned.  All 
these  things  happened  to  me  ;  but,  as  they  lack  novelty,  I  pass  them  over,  to 
tell  you  about  the  famous  snow-fort  which  we  built  on  Slatter's  Hill. 

I 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   SNOW  FORT  ON   SLATTER'S   HILL. 

THE  memory  of  man,  even  that  of  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  runneth  not  back 
to  the  time  when  there  did  not  exist  a  feud  between  the  North  End  and  the 
South  End  boys  of  Rivermouth. 

The  origin  of  the  feud  is  involved  in  mystery ;  it  is  impossible  to  say 
which  party  was  the  first  aggressor  in  the  far-off  ante-revolutionary  ages  ; 
but  the  fact  remains  that  the  youngsters  of  those  antipodal  sections  enter 
tained  a  mortal  hatred  for  each  other,  and  that  this  hatred  had  been  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation,  like  Miles  Standish's  punch-bowl. 

I  know  not  what  laws,  natural  or  unnatural,  regulated  the  warmth  of  the 
quarrel ;  but  at  some  seasons  it  raged  more  violently  than  at  others.  This 
winter,  both  parties  were  unusually  lively  and  antagonistic.  Great  was  the 
wrath  of  the  South-Enders,  when  they  discovered  that  the  North-Enders  had 
thrown  up  a  fort  on  the  crown  of  Slatter's  Hill. 

Slatter's  Hill,  or  No-man's-land,  as  it  was  generally  called,  was  a  rise  of 
ground  covering,  perhaps,  an  acre  and  a  quarter,  situated  on  an  imaginary 
line,  marking  the  boundary  between  the  two  districts.  An  immense  stratum 
of  granite,  which  here  and  there  thrust  out  a  wrinkled  boulder,  prevented  the 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  353 

site  from  being  used  for  building  purposes.  The  street  ran  on  either  side  of 
the  hill,  from  one  part  of  which  a  quantity  of  rock  had  been  removed  to  form 
the  underpinning  of  the  new  jail.  This  excavation  made  the  approach  from 
that  point  all  but  impossible,  especially  when  the  ragged  ledges  were  a- 
glitter  with  ice.  You  see  what  a  spot  it  was  for  a  snow-fort. 

One  evening  twenty  or  thirty  of  the  North-Enders  quietly  took  posses 
sion  of  Slatter's  Hill,  and  threw  up  a  strong  line  of  breastworks,  something 
after  this  shape  :  — 


The  rear  of  the  intrenchment,  being  protected  by  the  quarry,  was  left 
open.  The  walls  were  four  feet  high,  and  twenty-two  inches  thick,  strength 
ened  at  the  angles  by  stakes  driven  firmly  into  the  ground. 

Fancy  the  rage  of  the  South-Enders  the  next  day,  when  they  spied  our 
snowy  citadel,  with  Jack  Harris's  red  silk  pocket-handkerchief  floating  defi 
antly  from  the  flag- staff ! 

In  less  than  an  hour  it  was  known  all  over  town,  in  military  circles  at 
least,  that  the  "  Puddle-dockers  "  and  the  "  River- rats  "  (these  were  the  de 
risive  sub-titles  bestowed  on  our  South-End  foes)  intended  to  attack  the 
fort  that  Saturday  afternoon. 

At  two  o'clock  all  the  fighting  boys  of  the  Temple  Grammar  School,  and 
as  many  recruits  as  we  could  muster,  lay  behind  the  walls  of  Fort  Slatter, 
with  three  hundred  compact  snow-balls  piled  up  in  pyramids,  awaiting  the 
approach  of  the  enemy.  The  enemy  was  not  slow  in  making  his  approach, 
—  fifty  strong,  headed  by  one  Mat  Ames.  Our  forces  were  under  the  com 
mand  of  General  J.  Harris. 

Before  the  action  commenced,  a  meeting  was  arranged  between  the  rival 
commanders,  who  drew  up  and  signed  certain  rules  and  regulations  respect 
ing  the  conduct  of  the  battle.  As  it  was  impossible  for  the  North-Enders  to 
occupy  the  fort  permanently,  it  was  stipulated  that  the  South-Enders  should 
assault  it  only  on  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons  between  the  hours  of 
two  and  six.  For  them  to  take  possession  of  the  place  at  any  other  time 
was  not  to  constitute  a  capture,  but  on  the  contrary  was  to  be  considered 
a  dishonorable  and  cowardly  act.  The  North-Enders,  on  the  other  hand, 
agreed  to  give  up  the  fort  whenever  ten  of  the  storming  party  succeeded  in 
obtaining  at  one  time  a  footing  on  the  parapet,  and  were  able  to  hold  the 
same  for  the  space  of  two  minutes.  Both  sides  were  to  abstain  from  putting 
pebbles  into  their  snow-balls,  nor  was  it  permissible  to  use  frozen  ammuni 
tion.  A  snow-ball  soaked  in  water  and  left  out  to  cool  was  a  projectile 
which  in  previous  years  had  been  resorted  to  with  disastrous  results. 

These  preliminaries  settled,  the  commanders  retired  to  their  respective 
corps.  The  interview  had  taken  place  on  the  hillside  between  the  opposing 
lines. 


354 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


[June, 


General  Harris  divided  his  men  into  two  bodies  :  the  first  comprised  the 
most  skilful  marksmen,  or  gunners  ;  the  second,  the  reserve  force,  was  com 
posed  of  the  strongest  boys,  whose  duty  it  was  to  repel  the  scaling  parties, 
and  to  make  occasional  sallies  for  the  purpose  of  capturing  prisoners,  who 
were  bound  by  the  articles  of  treaty  to  faithfully  serve  under  our  flag  until 
they  were  exchanged  at  the  close  of  the  day. 

The  repellers  were  called  light  infantry  ;  but  when  they  carried  on  opera 
tions  beyond  the  fort  they  became  cavalry.  It  was  also  their  duty,  when  not 
otherwise  engaged,  to  manufacture  snow-balls.  The  General's  staff  con 
sisted  of  five  Templars  (I  among  the  number,  with  the  rank  of  Major),  who 
carried  the  General's  orders  and  looked  after  the  wounded. 

General  Mat  Ames,  a  veteran  commander,  was  no  less  wide-awake  in  the 
disposition  of  his  army.  Five  companies,  each  numbering  but  six  men,  in  or 
der  not  to  present  too  big  a  target  to  our  sharpshooters,  were  to  charge  the 
fort  from  different  points,  their  advance  being  covered  by  a  heavy  fire  from 
the  gunners  posted  in  the  rear.  Each  sealer  was  provided  with  only  two 
rounds  of  ammunition,  which  were  not  to  be  used  until  he  had  mounted  the 
breastwork  and  could  deliver  his  shots  on  our  heads. 

The  following  cut  represents  the  interior  of  the  fort  just  previous  to  the 
assault.  Nothing  on  earth  could  represent  the  state  of  things  after  the  first 
volley. 


a.  Flagstaff. 

b.  General  Harris  and  Viis  Staff. 


c.   Ammunition. 
d.   Hospital. 
g  g.   The  quarry. 


e  e.   Reserve  corps. 
f  f.   Gunners  in  position. 


The  enemy  was  posted  thus  :  — 
V  a 


a.  a.  The  five  attacking  columns. 


•        *       » 

C 

b  b.   Artillery. 


c.   General  Ames's  headquarters. 


The  thrilling  moment  had  now  arrived.  If  I  had  been  going  into  a  real 
engagement  I  could  not  have  been  more  deeply  impressed  by  the  solemnity 
of  the  occasion. 

The  fort  opened  fire  first,  —  a  single  ball  from  the  dexterous  hand  of  Gen- 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  355 

eral  Harris  taking  General  Ames  in  the  very  pit  of  his  stomach.  A  cheer 
went  up  from  Fort  Slatter.  In  an  instant  the  air  was  thick  with  flying  mis 
siles,  in  the  midst  of  which  we  dimly  descried  the  storming  parties  sweep 
ing  up  the  hill,  shoulder  to  shoulder.  The  shouts  of  the  leaders,  and  the 
snow-balls  bursting  like  shells  about  our  ears,  made  it  very  lively. 

Not  more  than  a  dozen  of  the  enemy  succeeded  in  reaching  the  crest  of 
the  hill ;  five  of  these  clambered  upon  the  icy  walls,  where  they  were  in 
stantly  grabbed  by  the  legs  and  jerked  into  the  fort.  The  rest  retired  con 
fused  and  blinded  by  our  well-directed  fire. 

When  General  Harris  (with  his  right  eye  bunged  up)  said,  "  Soldiers,  I 
am  proud  of  you  !  "  my  heart  swelled  in  my  bosom. 

The  victory,  however,  had  not  been  without  its  price.  Six  North-Enders, 
having  rushed  out  to  harass  the  discomfited  enemy,  were  gallantly  cut  off 
by  General  Ames  and  captured.  Among  these  were  Lieutenant  P.  Whit- 
comb  (who  had  no  business  to  join  in  the  charge,  being  weak  in  the  knees), 
and  Captain  Fred  Langdon,  of  General  Harris's  staff.  Whitcomb  was  one  of 
the  most  notable  shots  on  our  side,  though  he  was  not  much  to  boast  of  in  a 
rough-and-tumble  fight,  owing  to  the  weakness  before  mentioned.  General 
Ames  put  him  among  the  gunners,  and  we  were  quickly  made  aware  of  the 
loss  we  had  sustained,  by  receiving  a  frequent  artful  ball  which  seemed  to 
light  with  unerring  instinct  on  any  nose  that  was  the  least  bit  exposed.  I 
have  known  one  of  Pepper's  snow-balls,  fired  point-blank,  to  turn  a  corner 
and  hit  a  boy  who  considered  himself  absolutely  safe. 

But  we  had  no  time  for  vain  regrets.  The  battle  raged.  Already  there 
were  two  bad  cases  of  black  eye,  and  one  of  nose-bleed,  in  the  hospital. 

It  was  glorious  excitement,  those  pell-mell  onslaughts  and  hand-to-hand 
struggles.  Twice  we  were  within  an  ace  of  being  driven  from  our  strong 
hold,  when  General  Harris  and  his  staff  leaped  recklessly  upon  the  ramparts 
and  hurled  the  besiegers  heels  over  head  down  hill. 

At  sunset,  the  garrison  of  Fort  Slatter  was  still  unconquered,  and  the 
South-Enders,  in  a  solid  phalanx,  marched  off  whistling  "  Yankee  Doodle," 
while  we  cheered  and  jeered  them  until  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

General  Ames  remained  behind  to  effect  an  exchange  of  prisoners.  We 
held  thirteen  of  his  men,  and  he  eleven  of  ours.  General  Ames  proposed  to 
call  it  an  even  thing,  since  many  of  his  eleven  prisoners  were  officers,  while 
nearly  all  our  thirteen  captives  were  privates.  A  dispute  arising  on  this 
point,  the  two  noble  generals  came  to  fisticuffs,  and  in  the  fracas  our  brave 
commander  got  his  remaining  well  eye  badly  damaged.  This  didn't  pre 
vent  him  from  writing  a  general  order  the  next  day,  on  a  slate,  in  which  he 
complimented  the  troops  on  their  heroic  behavior. 

On  the  following  Wednesday  the  siege  was  renewed.  I  forget  whether 
it  was  on  that  afternoon  or  the  next  that  we  lost  Fort  Slatter  ;  but  lose  it  we 
did,  with  much  valuable  ammunition  and  several  men.  After  a  series  of  des 
perate  assaults,  we  forced  General  Ames  to  capitulate  ;  and  he,  in  turn, 
made  the  place  too  hot  to  hold  us.  So  from  day  to  day  the  tide  of  battle 
surged  to  and  fro,  sometimes  favoring  our  arms,  and  sometimes  those  of  the 
enemy. 


356  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [June, 

General  Ames  handled  his  men  with  great  skill ;  his  deadliest  foe  could 
not  deny  that.  Once  he  outgeneralled  our  commander  in  the  following  man 
ner:  He  massed  his  gunners  on  our  left  and  opened  a  brisk  fire,  under 
cover  of  which  a  single  company  (six  men)  advanced  on  that  angle  of  the 
fort.  Our  reserves  on  the  right  rushed  over  to  defend  the  threatened  point. 
Meanwhile,  four  companies  of  the  enemy's  sealers  made  a  detour  round  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and  dashed  into  Fort  Slatter  without  opposition.  At  the 
same  moment  General  Ames's  gunners  closed  in  on  our  left,  and  there  we 
were  between  two  fires.  Of  course  we  had  to  vacate  the  fort.  A  cloud 
rested  on  General  Harris's  military  reputation  until  his  superior  tactics  en 
abled  him  to  dispossess  the  enemy. 

As  the  winter  wore  on,  the  war-spirit  waxed  fiercer  and  fiercer.  At  length 
the  provision  against  using  heavy  substances  in  the  snow-balls  was  disre 
garded.  A  ball  stuck  full  of  sand-bird  shot  came  tearing  into  Fort  Slatter. 
In  retaliation,  General  Harris  ordered  a  broadside  of  shells  ;  i.  e.  snow-balls 
containing  marbles.  After  this,  both  sides  never  failed  to  freeze  their  am 
munition. 

It  was  no  longer  child's  play  to  march  up  to  the  walls  of  Fort  Slatter,  nor 
was  the  position  of  the  besieged  less  perilous.  At  every  assault  three  or 
four  boys  on  each  side  were  disabled.  It  was  not  an  infrequent  occurrence 
for  the  combatants  to  hold  up  a  flag  of  truce  while  they  removed  some  in 
sensible  comrade. 

Matters  grew  worse  and  worse.  Seven  North-Enders  had  been  seriously 
wounded,  and  a  dozen  South-Enders  were  reported  on  the  sick  list.  The 
selectmen  of  the  town  awoke  to  the  fact  of  what  was  going  on,  and  detailed 
a  posse  of  police  to  prevent  further  disturbance.  The  boys  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  South-Enders  as  it  happened,  finding  themselves  assailed  in  the  rear 
and  on  the  flank,  turned  round  and  attempted  to  beat  off  the  watchmen.  In 
this  they  were  sustained  by  numerous  volunteers  from  the  fort,  who  looked 
upon  the  interference  as  tyrannical. 

The  watch  were  determined  fellows,  and  charged  the  boys  valiantly,  driv 
ing  them  all  into  the  fort,  where  we  made  common  cause,  fighting  side  by 
side  like  the  best  of  friends.  In  vain  the  four  guardians  of  the  peace  rushed 
up  the  hill,  flourishing  their  clubs  and  calling  upon  us  to  surrender.  They 
could  not  get  within  ten  yards  of  the  fort,  our  fire  was  so  destructive.  In 
one  of  the  onsets  a  man  named  Mugridge,  more  valorous  than  his  peers, 
threw  himself  upon  the  parapet,  when  he  was  seized  by  twenty  pairs  of 
hands,  and  dragged  inside  the  breastwork,  where  fifteen  boys  sat  down  on 
him  to  keep  him  quiet. 

Perceiving  that  it  was  impossible  with  their  small  number  to  dislodge  us, 
the  watch  sent  for  reinforcements.  Their  call  was  responded  to,  not  only  by 
the  whole  constabulary  force  (eight  men),  but  by  a  numerous  body  of  citi 
zens,  who  had  become  alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  a  riot.  This  formidable 
array  brought  us  to  our  senses  :  we  began  to  think  that  maybe  discretion 
was  the  better  part  of  valor.  General  Harris  and  General  Ames,  with  their 
respective  staffs,  held  a  council  of  war  in  the  hospital,  and  a  backward  move- 


1869.]  Lawrence  at  a  Coal-Shaft.  357 

ment  was  decided  on.  So,  after  one  grand  farewell  volley,  we  fled,  sliding, 
jumping,  rolling,  tumbling  down  the  quarry  at  the  rear  of  the  fort,  and 
escaped  without  losing  a  man. 

But  we  lost  Fort  Slatter  forever.  Those  battle-scarred  ramparts  were 
razed  to  the  ground,  and  humiliating  ashes  sprinkled  over  the  historic  spot, 
near  which  a  solitary  lynx-eyed  policeman  was  seen  prowling  from  time  to 
time  during  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

The  event  passed  into  a  legend,  and  afterwards,  when  later  instances  of 
pluck  and  endurance  were  spoken  of,  the  boys  would  say,  "  By  golly  !  you 
ought  to  have  been  at  the  fights  on  Slatter's  Hill !  " 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


LAWRENCE    AT    A    COAL-SHAFT. 

ON  their  way  to  the  coal-shaft,  Lawrence  and  his  new  friend  passed  a  lit 
tle  white  box  of  a  house,  which  Mr.  Clarence  said  was  the  superintend 
ent's  office,  and  proposed  that  they  should  look  in. 

The  interior  consisted  of  one  room,  divided  by  a  counter,  on  one  side  of 
which  sat  a  young  man  reading  a  newspaper.  Lawrence  and  Mr.  Clarence, 
with  the  little  dog  Muff,  advanced  from  the  other  side. 

"  Here,"  said  Mr.  Clarence,  "  is  where  the  miners  walk  up  and  get  their 
pay."  He  rapped  on  the  counter  with  his  cane.  "  How  are  you,  Mr.  Super 
intendent  ?  " 

The  young  man  looked  up  pleasantly  enough  ;  and  Mr.  Clarence  proceed 
ed  to  introduce  himself  and  his  companion,  with  liberal  allusions  to  their  dis 
tinguished  uncles,  which  made  the  more  modest  Lawrence  grin  and  blush. 

"  We  shall  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you  will  grant  us  facilities  for  visiting  the 
mines,"  said  the  fluent-tongued  Mr.  Clarence. 

"It  won't  be  safe  for  you  to  go  into  the  mines  without  a  guide,  and  I  have 
no  person  to  send  with  you,"  replied  the  superintendent,  politely,  but  decid 
edly. 

Upon  which  Lawrence  was  for  retiring  at  once.  But  Mr.  Clarence  said, 
leaning  upon  the  counter  very  much  at  his  ease,  "  Of  course  ;  I  understand 
all  about  that ;  and  we  have  no  wish  to  take  up  your  valuable  time.  Tharik 
you,  —  very  kind,  I  am  sure,"  —  though  Lawrence  could  n't  see  how  the 
superintendent  had  shown  himself  so  very  kind,  or  why  they  should  thank 
him.  "  Perhaps,  however,"  said  Mr.  Clarence,  "  as  my  friend  here  is  in 
terested  in  the  coal  formation,  you  might  show  us  some  specimens  with 
out  much  trouble  to  yourself." 

"  O  certainly."  The  superintendent  laid  aside  his  newspaper,  and  got  up 
from  his  chair.  "  Here  is  something  quite  pretty,"  said  he,  opening  a  drawer 


358  Lawrence  at  a  Coal-Shaft.  [June, 

and  placing  on  the  counter  a  piece  of  slate  rock,  bearing  a  beautiful  impres 
sion  of  a  fern-leaf.  Lawrence's  enthusiasm  over  it  seemed  to  please  him  ; 
and  he  continued  to  lay  out  his  treasures,  until  he  came  to  one  which  he 
pronounced  "  very  remarkable." 

This  was  a  broad,  thin  slab  of  slate,  which  proved  to  be  a  perfect  cast  of  a 
portion  of  the  leaves  of  a  strange  tree,  which  must  have  been  two  or  three 
feet  in  diameter,  at  least.  All  the  minute  seams  in  the  bark,  together  with 
little  bud-like  spots  occurring  at  regular  intervals  between  parallel  lines  half 
an  inch  apart,  were  stamped  with  wonderful  delicacy  and  distinctness  in  the 
slaty  mould. 

"  How  —  where  did  these  come  from  ?  "  cried  Lawrence,  examining  the 
specimens  with  astonishment  and  admiration. 

"  The  coal,  you  know,"  said  the  voluble  Mr.  Clarence,  "  is  supposed  to  be 
the  result  of  immense,  rank  growths  of  fern-trees,  and  other  plants,  which 
absorbed  the  surplus  carbon  of  the  atmosphere  during  the  carboniferous 
period.  Carbon,  you  know,  is  the  principal  thing  in  coal,  —  the  French  say 
charbon,  which  means  both  carbon  and  coal,  —  and  the  carboniferous  era  is 
that  in  which  our  coal  deposits  were  made.  That  was  nobody  knows  how 
many  thousands  of  years  ago,  —  millions,  it  may  be  ;  and  the  trunks  and 
leaves  that  made  these  impressions  in  the  stones  you  are  handling  grew  and 
decayed  long  before  ever  man  appeared  on  the  globe." 

Lawrence  knew  as  much  as  that  before  ;  but  now,  with  the  impressions 
before  his  eyes,  distinct  as  if  they  had  been  taken  but  yesterday,  the  fact 
came  home  to  his  mind  with  startling  force. 

"  Those  forests,"  continued  Mr.  Clarence,  "  must  have  grown  mostly  in  the 
water,  and  have  sunk  down  in  great  beds  of  fallen  trunks  and  matted  leaves, 
and  there  decayed  ;  and  occasionally  layers  of  mud  or  clay  must  have  washed 
in  over  them  ;  and  now  and  then,  at  longer  intervals,  —  the  ground  sinking,  I 
suppose,  —  great  beds  of  sand  and  pebbles  washed  in.  The  vegetable  mat 
ters  changed  to  coal,  while  the  mud  hardened  into  slate,  and  the  sand  and 
pebbles  into  rocks.  The  mud,  of  course,  would  often  take  impressions  of 
the  leaves  and  bark,  and  retain  them,  as  it  hardened,  even  after  the  leaves 
and  bark  themselves  had  changed  to  coal." 

"  See  what  you  make  of  these,"  said  the  superintendent,  smiling,  as  he 
handed  out  more  specimens. 

"  These  are  fossil  roots,"  said  Mr.  Clarence.  "  You  find  them  generally 
in  the  fire  clay  under  the  coal  veins  ;  don't  you  ?  Ah,  this,"  he  said,  seizing 
a  beautiful  slender,  jointed  stem  of  stone,  "  this  is  a  fossil  reed  !  Something 
like  it  grows  in  Mexico,  at  this  day." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  the  superintendent.  "  That  was  fifteen  feet 
long,  when  we  first  found  it.  But  it  has  been  broken,  and  I  have  given  away 
pieces  of  it." 

"  Oh  !  if  I  could  only  have  a  piece  !  "  exclaimed  Lawrence. 

"  I  '11  give  you  a  piece,"  said  the  superintendent,  and  picked  out  from  the 
pile  a  small  fragment  of  the  reed,  which  had  been  previously  broken  off. 
Then,  seeing  how  delighted  the  boy  was,  he  selected  a  piece  of  slate  that 
had  a  fine  imprint  of  a  leaf  on  it,  and  gave  it  to  him. 


OUR   YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


JULY,    1869. 


No.  VII. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   DOLPHIN. 

T  was  spring  again.  The  snow  had  faded  away 
like  a  dream,  and  we  were  awakened,  so  to 
speak,  by  the  sudden  chirping  of  robins  in  our 
back  garden.  Marvellous  transformation  of 
snow-drifts  into  lilacs,  wondrous  miracle  of  the 
unfolding  leaf!  We  read  in  the  Holy  Book 
how  our  Saviour,  at  the  marriage-feast,  changed 
the  water  into  wine ;  we  pause  and  wonder ; 
but  every  hour  a  greater  miracle  is  wrought  at 
our  very  feet,  if  we  have  but  eyes  to  see  it. 

I  had  now  been  a  year  at  Rivermouth.  If 
you  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a  boy  I  was,  it 
is  not  because  I  have  n't  been  frank  with  you. 
Of  my  progress  at  school  I  say  little  ;  for  this 
is  a  story,  pure  and  simple,  and  not  a  treatise 
on  education.  Behold  me,  however,  well  up  in 
most  of  the  classes.  I  have  worn  my  Latin 
grammar  into  tatters,  and  am  in  the  first  book 
of  Virgil.  I  interlard  my  conversation  at  home 
with  easy  quotations  from  that  poet,  and  im 
press  Captain  Nutter  with  a  lofty  notion  of 
my  learning.  I  am  likewise  translating  Les 
Aventures  de  Te'le'maque  from  the  French,  and  shall  tackle  Blair's  Lectures 
the  next  term.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  crude  composition  about  The  Horse, 
and  can  do  better  now.  Sometimes  my  head  almost  aches  with  the  variety 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.   VII.  30 


- 


426  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [July, 

of  my  knowledge.  I  consider  Mr.  Grimshaw  the  greatest  scholar  that  ever 
lived,  and  I  don't  know  which  I  would  rather  be,  —  a  learned  man  like  him, 
or  a  circus-rider. 

My  thoughts  revert  to  this  particular  spring  more  frequently  than  to  any 
other  period  of  my  boyhood,  for  it  was  marked  by  an  event  that  left  an  indel 
ible  impression  on  my  memory.  As  I  pen  these  pages,  I  feel  that  I  am 
writing  of  something  which  happened  yesterday,  so  vividly  it  all  comes  back 
to  me. 

Every  Rivermouth  boy  looks  upon  the  sea  as  being  in  some  way  mixed  up 
with  his  destiny.  While  he  is  yet  a  baby  lying  in  his  cradle,  he  hears  the 
dull,  far-off  boom  of  the  breakers  ;  when  he  is  older,  he  wanders  by  the  sandy 
shore,  watching  the  waves  that  come  plunging  up  the  beach  like  white- 
maned  sea-horses,  as  Thoreau  calls  them  ;  his  eye  follows  the  lessening  sail 
as  it  fades  into  the  blue  horizon,  and  he  burns  for  the  time  when  he  shall 
stand  on  the  quarter-deck  of  his  own  ship,  and  go  sailing  proudly  across  that 
mysterious  waste  of  waters. 

Then  the  town  itself  is  full  of  hints  and  flavors  of  the  sea.  The  gables 
and  roofs  of  the  houses  facing  eastward  are  covered  with  red  rust,  like  the 
flukes  of  old  anchors  ;  a  salty  smell  pervades  the  air,  and  dense  gray  fogs, 
the  very  breath  of  Ocean,  periodically  creep  up  into  the  quiet  streets  and  en 
velop  everything.  The  terrific  storms  that  lash  the  coast ;  the  kelp  and 
spars,  and  sometimes  the  bodies  of  drowned  men,  tossed  on  shore  by  the 
scornful  waves ;  the  shipyards,  the  wharves,  and  the  tawny  fleet  of  fishing- 
smacks  yearly  fitted  out  at  Rivermouth,  —  these  things,  and  a  hundred  other, 
feed  the  imagination  and  fill  the  brain  of  every  healthy  boy  with  dreams  of 
adventure.  He  learns  to  swim  almost  as  soon  as  he  can  walk  ;  he  draws  in 
with  his  mother's  milk  the  art  of  handling  an  oar  :  he  is  born  a  sailor,  what 
ever  he  may  turn  out  to  be  afterwards. 

To  own  the  whole  or  a  portion  of  a  row-boat  is  his  earliest  ambition.  No 
wonder  that  I,  born  to  this  life,  and  coming  back  to  it  with  freshest  sympa 
thies,  should  have  caught  the  prevailing  infection.  No  wonder  I  longed 
to  buy  a  part  of  the  trim  little  sail-boat  Dolphin,  which  chanced  just  then  to 
be  in  the  market.  This  was  in  the  latter  part  of  May. 

Three  shares,  at  five  or  six  dollars  each,  I  forget  which,  had  already  been 
taken  by  Phil  Adams,  Fred  Langdon,  and  Binny  Wallace.  The  fourth  and 
remaining  share  hung  fire.  Unless  a  purchaser  could  be  found  for  this,  the 
bargain  was  to  fall  through. 

I  am  afraid  I  required  but  slight  urging  to  join  in  the  investment.  I  had 
four  dollars  and  fifty  cents  on  hand,  and  the  treasurer  of  the  Centipedes  ad 
vanced  me  the  balance,  receiving  my  silver  pencil-case  as  ample  security.  It 
was  a  proud  moment  when  I  stood  on  the  wharf  with  my  partners,  inspect 
ing  the  Dolphin,  moored  at  the  foot  of  a  very  slippery  flight  of  steps.  She 
was  painted  white  with  a  green  stripe  outside,  and  on  the  stern  a  yellow  dol 
phin,  with  its  scarlet  mouth  wide  open,  stared  with  a  surprised  expression  at 
its  own  reflection  in  the  water.  The  boat  was  a  great  bargain. 

I  whirled  my  cap  in  the  air,  and  ran  to  the  stairs  leading  down  from  the 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  427 

wharf,  when  a  hand  was  laid  gently  on  my  shoulder.  I  turned,  and  faced 
Captain  Nutter.  I  never  saw  such  an  old  sharp-eye  as  he  was  in  those 
days. 

I  knew  he  would  n't  be  angry  with  me  for  buying  a  row-boat ;  but  I  also 
knew  that  the  little  bowsprit  suggesting  a  jib,  and  the  tapering  mast  ready 
for  its  few  square  yards  of  canvas,  were  trifles  not  likely  to  meet  his  approval. 
As  far  as  rowing  on  the  river,  among  the  wharves,  was  concerned,  the  Cap 
tain  had  long  since  withdrawn  his  decided  objections,  having  convinced  him 
self,  by  going  out  with  me  several  times,  that  I  could  manage  a  pair  of  sculls 
as  well  as  anybody. 

I  was  right  in  my  surmises.  He  commanded  me,  in  the  most  emphatic 
terms,  never  to  go  out  in  the  Dolphin  without  leaving  the  mast  in  the  boat- 
house.  This  curtailed  my  anticipated  sport,  but  the  pleasure  of  having  a  pull 
whenever  I  wanted  it  remained.  I  never  disobeyed  the  Captain's  orders 
touching  the  sail,  though  I  sometimes  extended  my  row  beyond  the  points 
he  had  indicated. 

The  river  was  dangerous  for  sail-boats.  Squalls,  without  the  slightest 
warning,  were  of  frequent  occurrence ;  scarcely  a  year  passed  that  six  or 
seven  persons  were  not  drowned  under  the  very  windows  of  the  town,  and 
these,  oddly  enough,  were  generally  sea-captains,  who  either  did  not  under 
stand  the  river,  or  lacked  the  skill  to  handle  a  small  craft. 

A  knowledge  of  such  disasters,  one  of  which  I  witnessed,  consoled  me 
somewhat  when  I  saw  Phil  Adams  skimming  over  the  water  in  a  spanking 
breeze  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  set.  There  were  few  better  yachtsmen 
than  Phil  Adams.  He  usually  went  sailing  alone,  for  both  Fred  Langdon 
and  Binny  Wallace  were  under  the  same  restrictions  I  was. 

Not  long  after  the  purchase  of  the  boat,  we  planned  an  excursion  to  Sand- 
peep  Island,  the  last  of  the  islands  in  the  harbor.  We  proposed  to  start 
early  in  the  morning,  and  return  with  the  tide  in  the  moonlight.  Our  only 
difficulty  was  to  obtain  a  whole  day's  exemption  from  school,  the  customary 
half-holiday  not  being  long  enough  for  our  picnic.  Somehow,  we  could  n't 
work  it ;  but  fortune  arranged  it  for  us.  I  may  say  here,  that,  whatever  else 
I  did,  I  never  played  truant  ("  hookey  "  we  called  it)  in  my  life. 

One  afternoon  the  four  owners-  of  the  Dolphin  exchanged  significant 
glances  when  Mr.  Grimshaw  announced  from  the  desk  that  there  would  be 
no  school  the  following  day,  he  having  just  received  intelligence  of  the  death 
of  his  uncle  in  Boston.  I  was  sincerely  attached  to  Mr.  Grimshaw,  but  I  am 
afraid  that  the  death  of  his  uncle  did  not  affect  me  as  it  ought  to  have  done. 

We  were  up  before  sunrise  the  next  morning,  in  order  to  take  advan 
tage  of  the  flood  tide,  which  waits  for  no  man.  Our  preparations  for  the 
cruise  were  made  the  previous  evening.  In  the  way  of  eatables  and  drink 
ables,  we  had  stored  in  the  stern  of  the  Dolphin  a  generous  bag  of  hard 
tack  (for  the  chowder),  a  piece  of  pork  to  fry  the  cunners  in,  three  gigantic 
apple-pies  (bought  at  Pettingil's),  half  a  dozen  lemons,  and  a  keg  of  spring- 
water,  —  the  last-named  article  we  slung  over  the  side,  to  keep  it  cool,  as 
soon  as  we  got  under  way.  The  crockery  and  the  bricks  for  our  camp- 


428  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [July, 

stove  we  placed  in  the  bows  with  the  groceries,  which  included  sugar,  pep 
per,  salt,  and  a  bottle  of  pickles.  Phil  Adams  contributed  to  the  outfit  a 
small  tent  of  unbleached  cotton  cloth,  under  which  we  intended  to  take  our 
nooning.  ' 

We  unshipped  the  mast,  threw  in  an  extra  oar,  and  were  ready  to  embark. 
I  do  not  believe  that  Christopher  Columbus,  when  he  started  on  his  rather 
successful  voyage  of  discovery,  felt  half  the  responsibility  and  importance 
that  weighed  upon  me  as  I  sat  on  the  middle  seat  of  the  Dolphin,  with  my 
oar  resting  in  the  row-lock.  I  wonder  if  Christopher  Columbus  quietly 
slipped  out  of  the  house  without  letting  his  estimable  family  know  what  he 
was  up  to  ? 

Charley  Harden,  whose  father  had  promised  to  cane  him  if  he  ever  stepped 
foot  on  sail  or  row  boat,  came  down  to  the  wharf  in  a  sour-grape  humor,  to 
see  us  off.  Nothing  would  tempt  him  to  go  out  on  the  river  in  such  a  crazy 
clam-shell  of  a  boat.  He  pretended  that  he  did  not  expect  to  behold  us  alive 
again,  and  tried  to  throw  a  wet  blanket  over  the  expedition. 

"  Guess  you  '11  have  a  squally  time  of  it,"  said  Charley,  casting  off  the 
painter.  "  I  '11  drop  in  at  old  Newbury's  "  (Newbury  was  the  parish  under 
taker)  "  and  leave  word,  as  I  go  along  !  " 

"  Bosh  !  "  muttered  Phil  Adams,  sticking  the  boat-hook  into  the  string- 
piece  of  the  wharf,  and  sending  the  Dolphin  half  a  dozen  yards  towards  the 
current. 

How  calm  and  lovely  the  river  was  !  Not  a  ripple  stirred  on  the  glassy 
surface,  broken  only  by  the  sharp  cutwater  of  our  tiny  craft.  The  sun,  as 
round  and  red  as  an  August  moon,  was  by  this  time  peering  above  the  water- 
line. 

The  town  had  drifted  behind  us,  and  we  were  entering  among  the  group  of 
islands.  Sometimes  we  could  almost  touch  with  our  boat-hook  the  shelving 
banks  on  either  side.  As  we  neared  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  a  little  breeze 
now  and  then  wrinkled  the  blue  water,  shook  the  spangles  from  the  foliage, 
and  gently  lifted  the  spiral  mist-wreaths  that  still  clung  along  shore.  The 
measured  dip  of  our  oars  and  the  drowsy  twitterings  of  the  birds  seemed  to 
mingle  with,  rather  than  break,  the  enchanted  silence  that  reigned  about  us. 

The  scent  of  the  new  clover  comes  back  to  me  now,  as  I  recall  that  deli 
cious  morning  when  we  floated  away  in  a  fairy  boat  down  a  river  like  a 
dream  ! 

The  sun  was  well  up  when  the  nose  of  the  Dolphin  nestled  against  the 
snow-white  bosom  of  Sandpeep  Island.  This  island,  as  I  have  said  before, 
was  the  last  of  the  cluster,  one  side  of  it  being  washed  by  the  sea.  We 
landed  on  the  river  side,  the  sloping  sands  and  quiet  water  affording  us  a 
good  place  to  moor  the  boat. 

It  took  us  an  hour  or  two  to  transport  our  stores  to  the  spot  selected  for 
the  encampment.  Having  pitched  our  tent,  using  the  five  oars  to  support 
the  canvas,  we  got  out  our  lines,  and  went  down  the  rocks  seaward  to  fish. 
It  was  early  for  cunners,  but  we  were  lucky  enough  to  catch  as  nice  a  mess 
as  ever  you  saw.  A  cod  for  the  chowder  was  not  so  easily  secured.  At  last 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  429 

Binny  Wallace  hauled  in  a  plump  little  fellow  crusted  all  over  with  flaky 
silver. 

To  skin  the  fish,  build  our  fireplace,  and  cook  the  dinner  kept  us  busy 
the  next  two  hours.  The  fresh  air  and  the  exercise  had  given  us  the  appe 
tites  of  wolves,  and  we  were  about  famished  by  the  time  the  savory  mixture 
was  ready  for  our  clam-shell  saucers. 

I  shall  not  insult  the  rising  generation  on  the  seaboard  by  telling  them 
how  delectable  is  a  chowder  compounded  and  eaten  in  this  Robinson  Crusoe 
fashion.  As  for  the  boys  who  live  inland,  and  know  naught  of  such  marine 
feasts,  my  heart  is  full  of  pity  for  them.  What  wasted  lives  !  Not  to  know 
the  delights  of  a  clam-bake,  not  to  love  chowder,  to  be  ignorant  of  lob- 
scouse  ! 

How  happy  we  were,  we  four,  sitting  cross-legged  in  the  crisp  salt  grass, 
with  the  invigorating  sea-breeze  blowing  gratefully  through  our  hair  !  What 
a  joyous  thing  was  life,  and  how  far  off  seemed  death,  —  death,  that  lurks  in 
all  pleasant  places,  and  was  so  near  ! 

The  banquet  finished,  Phil  Adams  drew  forth  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of 
sweet-fern  cigars  ;  but  as  none  of  the  party  could  indulge  without  imminent 
risk  of  becoming  sick,  we  all,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  declined,  and  Phil 
smoked  by  himself. 

The  wind  had  freshened  by  this,  and  we  found  it  comfortable  to  put  on  the 
jackets  which  had  been  thrown  aside  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  We  strolled 
along  the  beach  and  gathered  large  quantities  of  the  fairy-woven  Iceland  moss, 
which,  at  certain  seasons,  is  washed  to  these  shores  ;  then  we  played  at  ducks 
and  drakes,  and  then,  the  sun  being  sufficiently  low,  we  went  in  bathing. 

Before  our  bath  was  ended  a  slight  change  had  come  over  the  sky  and 
sea ;  fleecy-white  clouds  scudded  here  and  there,  and  a  muffled  moan  from 
the  breakers  caught  our  ears  from  time  to  time.  While  we  were  dress 
ing,  a  few  hurried  drops  of  rain  came  lisping  down,  and  we  adjourned  to  the 
tent  to  await  the  passing  of  the  squall. 

"  We  're  all  right,  anyhow,"  said  Phil  Adams.  "It  won't  be  much  of  a 
blow,  and  we  '11  be  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug,  here  in  the  tent,  particularly  if 
we  have  that  lemonade  which  some  of  you  fellows  were  going  to  make." 

By  an  oversight,  the  lemons  had  been  left  in  the  boat.  Binny  Wallace 
volunteered  to  go  for  them. 

"  Put  an  extra  stone  on  the  painter,  Binny,"  said  Adams,  calling  after 
him  ;  "  it  would  be  awkward  to  have  the  Dolphin  give  us  the  slip  and  return 
to  port  minus  her  passengers." 

"  That  it  would,"  answered  Binny,  scrambling  down  the  rocks. 

Sandpeep  Island  is  diamond-shaped,  —  one  point  running  out  into  the  sea, 
and  the  other  looking  towards  the  town.  Our  tent  was  on  the  river-side. 
Though  the  Dolphin  was  also  on  the  same  side,  it  lay  out  of  sight  by  the 
beach  at  the  farther  extremity  of  the  island. 

Binny  Wallace  had  been  absent  five  or  six  minutes,  when  we  heard  him 
calling  our  several  names  in  tones  that  indicated  distress  or  surprise,  we 
could  not  tell  which.  Our  first  thought  was,  "  The  boat  has  broken  adrift !  " 


430 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


[July, 


We  sprung  to  our  feet  and  hastened  down  to  the  beach.  On  turning  the 
bluff  which  hid  the  mooring-place  from  our  view,  we  found  the  conjecture 
correct.  Not  only  was  the  Dolphin  afloat,  but  poor  little  Binny  Wallace 
was  standing  in  the  bows  with  his  arms  stretched  helplessly  towards  us,  — 
drifting  out  to  sea  ! 


"  Head  the  boat  in  shore  ! "  shouted  Phil  Adams. 

Wallace  ran  to  the  tiller  ;  but  the  slight  cockle-shell  merely  swung  round 
and  drifted  broadside  on.  O,  if  we  had  but  left  a  single  scull  in  the  Dol 
phin  ! 

"  Can  you  swim  it  ?  "  cried  Adams,  desperately,  using  his  hand  as  a  speak 
ing-trumpet,  for  the  distance  between  the  boat  and  the  island  widened  mo 
mently. 

Binny  Wallace  looked  down  at  the  sea,  which  was  covered  with  white 
caps,  and  made  a  despairing  gesture.  He  knew,  and  we  knew,  that  the 
stoutest  swimmer  could  not  live  forty  seconds  in  those  angry  waters. 

A  wild,  insane  light  came  into  Phil  Adams's  eyes,  as  he  stood  knee-deep 
in  boiling  surf,  and  for  an  instant  I  think  he  meditated  plunging  into  the 
ocean  after  the  receding  boat. 

The  sky  darkened,  and  an  ugly  look  stole  rapidly  over  the  broken  surface 
of  the  sea. 

Binny  Wallace  half  rose  from  his  seat  in  the  stern,  and  waved  his  hand  to 
us  in  token  of  farewell.  In  spite  of  the  distance,  increasing  every  instant, 
we  could  see  his  face  plainly.  The  anxious  expression  it  wore  at  first  had 
passed.  It  was  pale  and  meek  now,  and  I  love  to  think  there  was  a  kind  of 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  431 

halo  about  it,  like  that  which  painters  place  around  the  forehead  of  a  saint. 
So  he  drifted  away. 

The  sky  grew  darker  and  darker.  It  was  only  by  straining  our  eyes 
through  the  unnatural  twilight  that  we  could  keep  the  Dolphin  in  sight. 
The  figure  of  Binny  Wallace  was  no  longer  visible,  for  the  boat  itself  had 
dwindled  to  a  mere  white  dot  on  the  black  water.  Now  we  lost  it,  and  our 
hearts  stopped  throbbing  ;  and  now  the  speck  appeared  again,  for  an  instant, 
on  the  crest  of  a  high  wave. 

Finally,  it  went  out  like  a  spark,  and  we  saw  it  no  more.  Then  we  gazed 
at  each  other,  and  dared  not  speak. 

Absorbed  in  following  the  course  of  the  boat,  we  had  scarcely  noticed  the 
huddled  inky  clouds  that  sagged  down  all  around  us.  From  these  threaten 
ing  masses,  seamed  at  intervals  with  pale  lightning,  there  now  burst  a  heavy 
peal  of  thunder  that  shook  the  ground  under  our  feet.  A  sudden  squall 
struck  the  sea,  ploughing  deep  white  furrows  into  it,  and  at  the  same  instant 
a  single  piercing  shriek  rose  above  the  tempest,  —  the  frightened  cry  of  a 
gull  swooping  over  the  island.  How  it  startled  us  ! 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  our  footing  on  the  beach  any  longer.  The  wind 
and  the  breakers  would  have  swept  us  into  the  ocean  if  we  had  not  clung  to 
each  other  with  the  desperation  of  drowning  men.  Taking  advantage  of  a 
momentary  lull,  we  crawled  up  the  sands  on  our  hands  and  knees,  and,  paus 
ing  in  the  lee  of  the  granite  ledge  to  gain  breath,  returned  to  the  camp,  where 
we  found  that  the  gale  had  snapped  all  the  fastenings  of  the  tent  but  one. 
Held  by  this,  the  puffed-out  canvas  swayed  in  the  wind  like  a  balloon.  It 
was  a  task  of  some  difficulty  to  secure  it,  which  we  did  by  beating  down  the 
canvas  with  the  oars. 

After  several  trials,  we  succeeded  in  setting  up  the  tent  on  the  leeward 
side  of  the  ledge.  Blinded  by  the  vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  and  drenched  by 
the  rain,  which  fell  in  torrents,  we  crept,  half  dead  with  fear  and  anguish,  un 
der  our  flimsy  shelter.  Neither  the  anguish  nor  the  fear  was  on  our  own 
account,  for  we  were  comparatively  safe,  but  for  poor  little  Binny  Wallace, 
driven  out  to  sea  in  the  merciless  gale.  We  shuddered  to  think  of  him  in 
that  frail  shell,  drifting  on  and  on  to  his  grave,  the  sky  rent  with  lightning 
over  his  head,  and  the  green  abysses  yawning  beneath  him.  We  fell  to  cry 
ing,  the  three  of  us,  and  cried  I  know  not  how  long. 

Meanwhile  the  storm  raged  with  augmented  fury.  We  were  obliged  to 
hold  on  to  the  ropes  of  the  tent  to  prevent  it  blowing  away.  The  spray  from 
the  river  leaped  several  yards  up  the  rocks  and  clutched  at  us  malignantly. 
The  very  island  trembled  with  the  concussions  of  the  sea  beating  upon  it, 
and  at  times  I  fancied  that  it  had  broken  loose  from  its  foundation,  and  was 
floating  off  with  us.  The  breakers,  streaked  with  angry  phosphorus,  were 
fearful  to  look  at. 

The  wind  rose  higher  and  higher,  cutting  long  slits  in  the  tent,  through 
which  the  rain  poured  incessantly.  To  complete  the  sum  of  our  miseries, 
the  night  was  at  hand.  It  came  down  suddenly,  at  last,  like  a  curtain,  shut 
ting  in  Sandpeep  Island  from  all  the  world. 


432  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [July, 

It  was  a  dirty  night,  as  the  sailors  say.  The  darkness  was  something  that 
could  be  felt  as  well  as  seen,  —  it  pressed  down  upon  one  with  a  cold,  clammy 
touch.  Gazing  into  the  hollow  blackness,  all  sorts  of  imaginable  shapes 
seemed  to  start  forth  from  vacancy,  —  brilliant  colors,  stars,  prisms,  and 
dancing  lights.  What  boy,  lying  awake  at  night,  has  not  amused  or  ter 
rified  himself  by  peopling  the  spaces  round  his  bed  with  these  phenomena  of 
his  own  eyes  ? 

"  I  say,"  whispered  Fred  Langdon,  at  length,  clutching  my  hand,  "  don't 
you  see  things  —  out  there  —  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  —  Binny  Wallace's  face  !  " 

I  added  to  my  own  nervousness  by  making  this  avowal ;  though  for  the 
last  ten  minutes  I  had  seen  little  besides  that  star-pale  face  with  its  angelic 
hair  and  brows.  First  a  slim  yellow  circle,  like  the  nimbus  round  the  moon, 
took  shape  and  grew  sharp  against  the  darkness  ;  then  this  faded  gradually, 
and  there  was  the  Face,  wearing  the  same  sad,  sweet  look  it  wore  when  he 
waved  his  hand  to  us  across  the  awful  water.  This  optical  illusion  kept  re 
peating  itself. 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  Adams.  "  I  see  it  every  now  and  then,  outside  there. 
What  would  n't  I  give  if  it  really  was  poor  little  Wallace  looking  in  at  us  ! 
O  boys,  how  shall  we  dare  to  go  back  to  the  town  without  him  ?  I  Ve 
wished  a  hundred  times,  since  we  Ve  been  sitting  here,  that  I  was  in  his 
place,  alive  or  dead  !  " 

We  dreaded  the  approach  of  morning  as  much  as  we  longed  for  it.  The 
morning  would  tell  us  all.  Was  it  possible  for  the  Dolphin  to  outride  such 
a  storm  ?  There  was  a  light-house  on  Mackerel  Reef,  which  lay  directly  in 
the  course  the  boat  had  taken,  when  it  disappeared.  If  the  Dolphin  had 
caught  on  this  reef,  perhaps  Binny  Wallace  was  safe.  Perhaps  his  cries  had 
been  heard  by  the  keeper  of  the  light.  The  man  owned  a  life-boat,  and  had 
rescued  several  people.  Who  could  tell  ? 

Such  were  the  questions  we  asked  ourselves  again  and  again,  as  we  lay  in 
each  other's  arms  waiting  for  daybreak.  What  an  endless  night  it  was  !  I 
have  known  months  that  did  not  seem  so  long. 

Our  position  was  irksome  rather  than  perilous  ;  for  the  day  was  certain  to 
bring  us  relief  from  the  town,  where  our  prolonged  absence,  together  with 
the  storm,  had  no  doubt  excited  the  liveliest  alarm  for  our  safety.  But  the 
cold,  the  darkness,  and  the  suspense  were  hard  to  bear. 

Our  soaked  jackets  had  chilled  us  to  the  bone.  To  keep  warm,  we  lay 
huddled  together  so  closely  that  we  could  hear  our  hearts  beat  above  the 
tumult  of  sea  and  sky. 

We  used  to  laugh  at  Fred  Langdon  for  always  carrying  in  his  pocket  a 
small  vial  of  essence  of  peppermint  or  sassafras,  a  few  drops  of  which,  sprin 
kled  on  a  lump  of  loaf-sugar,  he  seemed  to  consider  a  great  luxury.  I  don't 
know  what  would  have  become  of  us  at  this  crisis,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that 
omnipresent  bottle  of  hot  stuff.  We  poured  the  stinging  liquid  over  our 
sugar,  which  had  kept  dry  in  a  sardine-box,  and  warmed  ourself  with  fre 
quent  doses. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  433 

After  four  or  five  hours  the  rain  ceased,  the  wind  died  away  to  a  moan,  and 
the  sea  —  no  longer  raging  like  a  maniac  —  sobbed  and  sobbed  with  a  pite 
ous  human  voice  all  along  the  coast.  And  well  it  might,  after  that  night's 
work.  Twelve  sail  of  the  Gloucester  fishing  fleet  had  gone  down  with  every 
soul  on  board,  just  outside  of  Whale's-back  light.  Think  of  the  wide  grief 
that  follows  in  the  wake  of  one  wreck  ;  then  think  of  the  despairing  women 
who  wrung  their  hands  and  wept,  the  next  morning,  in  the  streets  of  Glou 
cester,  Marblehead,  and  Newcastle  ! 

Though  our  strength  was  nearly  spent,  we  were  too  cold  to  sleep.  Once 
I  sunk  into  a  troubled  doze,  when  I  seemed  to  hear  Charley  Marden's  part 
ing  words,  only  it  was  the  Sea  that  said  them.  After  that  I  threw  off  the 
drowsiness  whenever  it  threatened  to  overcome  me. 

Fred  Langdon  was  the  earliest  to  discover  a  filmy,  luminous  streak  in  the 
sky,  the  first  glimmering  of  sunrise. 

"  Look,  it  is  nearly  daybreak  !  " 

While  we  were  following  the  direction  of  his  finger,  a  sound  of  distant  oars 
fell  on  our  ears. 

We  listened  breathlessly,  and  as  the  dip  of  the  blades  became  more  audi 
ble,  we  discerned  two  foggy  lights,  like  will-o'-the-wisps,  floating  on  the 
river. 

Running  down  to  the  water's  edge,  we  hailed  the  boats  with  all  our  might. 
The  call  was  heard,  for  the  oars  rested  a  moment  in  the  row-locks,  and  then 
pulled  in  towards  the  island. 

It  was  two  boats  from  the  town,  in  the  foremost  of  which  we  could  now 
make  out  the  figures  of  Captain  Nutter  and  Binny  Wallace's  father.  We 
shrunk  back  on  seeing  him. 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Mr.  Wallace,  fervently,  as  he  leaped  from  the 
wherry  without  waiting  for  the  bow  to  touch  the  beach. 

But  when  he  saw  only  three  boys  standing  on  the  sands,  his  eye  wandered 
restlessly  about  in  quest  of  the  fourth  ;  then  a  deadly  pallor  overspread  his 
features. 

Our  story  was  soon  told.  A  solemn  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd  of  rough 
boatmen  gathered  round,  interrupted  only  by  a  stifled  sob  from  one  poor  old 
man,  who  stood  apart  from  the  rest. 

The  sea  was  still  running  too  high  for  any  small  boat  to  venture  out ;  so 
it  was  arranged  that  the  wherry  should  take  us  back  to  town,  leaving  the 
yawl,  with  a  picked  crew,  to  hug  the  island  until  daybreak,  and  then  set  forth 
in  search  of  the  Dolphin. 

Though  it  was  barely  sunrise  when  we  reached  town,  there  were  a  great 
many  people  assembled  at  the  landing,  eager  for  intelligence  from  miss 
ing  boats.  Two  picnic  parties  had  started  down  river  the  day  before,  just 
previous  to  the  gale,  and  nothing  had  been  heard  of  them.  It  turned  out 
that  the  pleasure-seekers  saw  their  danger  in  time,  and  ran  ashore  on  one  of 
the  least  exposed  islands,  where  they  passed  the  night.  Shortly  after,  our 
own  arrival  they  appeared  off  Rivermouth,  much  to  the  joy  of  their  friends, 
in  two  shattered,  dismasted  boats. 


434  Lawrence  in  a  Coal-Mine.  [July, 

The  excitement  over,  I  was  in  a  forlorn  state,  physically  and  mentally. 
Captain  Nutter  put  me  to  bed  between  hot  blankets,  and  sent  Kitty  Collins 
for  the  doctor.  I  was  wandering  in  my  mind,  and  fancied  myself  still  on 
Sandpeep  Island :  now  I  gave  orders  to  Wallace  how  to  manage  the  boat, 
and  now  I  cried  because  the  rain  was  pouring  in  on  me  through  the  holes 
in  the  tent.  Towards  evening  a  high  fever  set  in,  and  it  was  many  days 
before  my  grandfather  deemed  it  prudent  to  tell  me  that  the  Dolphin  had 
been  found,  floating  keel  upwards,  four  miles  southeast  of  Mackerel  Reef. 

Poor  little  Binny  Wallace  !  How  strange  it  seemed,  when  I  went  to 
school  again,  to  see  that  empty  seat  in  the  fifth  row  !  How  gloomy  the  play 
ground  was,  lacking  the  sunshine  of  his  gentle,  sensitive  face  !  One  day  a 
folded  sheet  slipped  from  my  algebra  ;  it  was  the  last  note  he  ever  wrote  me. 
I  could  n't  read  it  for  the  tears. 

What  a  pang  shot  across  my  heart  the  afternoon  it  was  whispered  through 
the  town  that  a  body  had  been  washed  ashore  at  Grave  Point,  —  the  place 
where  we  bathed.  We  bathed  there  no  more  !  How  well  I  remember  the 
funeral,  and  what  a  piteous  sight  it  was  afterwards  to  see  his  familiar  name 
on  a  small  headstone  in  the  Old  South  Burying  Ground  ! 

Poor  little  Binny  Wallace  !  Always  the  same  to  me.  The  rest  of  us  have 
grown  up  into  hard,  worldly  men,  fighting  the  fight  of  life ;  but  you  are  for 
ever  young,  and  gentle,  and  pure  ;  a  part  of  my  own  childhood  that  time  can 
not  wither  \  always  a  little  boy,  always  poor  little  Binny  Wallace  ! 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


LAWRENCE    IN    A    COAL-MINE. 

DOWN,  down  went  the  car,  steadily,  but  by  no  means  so  fast  as  when  it 
bore  no  freight  of  human  lives.  Lawrence  held  tight  to  his  little  lamp 
with  one  hand,  and  to  the  brace  with  the  other,  while  he  tried  to  get  some 
idea  of  the  depth  of  the  shaft,  by  reflecting  that,  if  the  partitions  were  taken 
out,  Bunker  Hill  Monument  would  have  made  a  very  good  plug  for  it. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  said  Owen,  laughing.  "  A  terrible  accident  happened 
in  a  shaft  near  here  the  other  day  "  ;  and  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face  at 
the  recollection.  "  A  crowd  of  men  were  going  into  the  mines  one  morn 
ing.  They  did  n't  like  to  wait,  so  seventeen  of  'em  piled  on  to  one  car  at 
once.  The  rope  broke,  and  they  fell  two  hundred  feet.  Fourteen  got  killed, 
and  the  other  three  got  maimed  for  life." 

"  That's  a  cheerful  story  to  tell,  when  we  are  half-way  down  a  shaft,"  said 
Mr.  Clarence. 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  were  iron  dogs  to  fall  into  these  notches  in  the 
guides,  and  hold  the  car,  if  the  rope  should  break,"  said  Lawrence. 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


AUGUST,    1869. 


No.  VIII. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  XV. 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  TURNS  UP. 

YEAR  had  stolen  by  since  the  death  of  Binny 
Wallace,  —  a  year  of  which  I  have  nothing  im 
portant  to  record. 

The  loss  of  our  little  playmate  threw  a  shad 
ow  over  our  young  lives  for  many  and  many  a 
month.  The  Dolphin  rose  and  fell  with  the 
tide  at  the  foot  of  the  slippery  steps,  unused, 
the  rest  of  the  summer.  At  the  close  of  No 
vember  we  hauled  her  sadly  into  the  boat- 
house  for  the  winter;  but  when  spring  came 
round  we  launched  the  Dolphin  again,  and 
often  went  down  to  the  wharf  and  looked  at 
her  lying  in  the  tangled  eel-grass,  without  much 
inclination  to  take  a  row.  The  associations 
connected  with  the  boat  were  too  painful  as 
yet ;  but  time,  which  wears  the  sharp  edge 
from  everything,  softened  this  feeling,  and  one 
afternoon  we  brought  out  the  cobwebbed  oars. 
The  ice  once  broken,  brief  trips  along  the 
wharves  —  we  seldom  cared  to  go  out  into  the 
river  now  —  became  one  of  our  chief  amuse 
ments.  Meanwhile  Gypsy  was  not  forgotten. 
Every  clear  morning  I  was  in  the  saddle  before  breakfast,  and  there  are  few 
roads  or  lanes  within  ten  miles  of  Rivermouth  that  have  not  borne  the  print 
of  her  vagrant  hoof. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

VOL.  v.  —  NO.  viii.  35 


498  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [August, 

I  studied  like  a  good  fellow  this  quarter,  carrying  off  a  couple  of  first  prizes. 
The  Captain  expressed  his  gratification  by  presenting  me  with  a  new  silver 
dollar.  If  a  dollar  in  his  eyes  was  smaller  than  a  cart-wheel,  it  wasn't  so 
very  much  smaller.  I  redeemed  my  pencil-case  from  the  treasurer  of  the 
Centipedes,  and  felt  that  I  was  getting  on  in  the  world. 

It  was  at  this  time  I  was  greatly  cast  down  by  a  letter  from  my  father  say 
ing  that  he  should  be  unable  to  visit  Rivermouth  until  the  following  year. 
With  that  letter  came  another  to  Captain  Nutter,  which  he  did  not  read  aloud 
to  the  family,  as  usual.  It  was  on  business,  he  said,  folding  it  up  in  his  wal 
let.  He  received  several  of  these  business  letters  from  time  to  time,  and  I 
noticed  that  they  always  made  him  silent  and  moody. 

The  fact  is,  my  father's  banking-house  was  not  thriving.  The  unlooked- 
for  failure  of  a  firm  largely  indebted  to  him  had  crippled  "the  house." 
When  the  Captain  imparted  this  information  to  me,  I  did  n't  trouble  myself 
over  the  matter.  I  supposed  —  if  I  supposed  anything  —  that  all  grown-up 
people  had  more  or  less  money,  when  they  wanted  it.  Whether  they  inher 
ited  it,  or  whether  government  supplied  them,  was  not  clear  to  me.  A  loose 
idea  that  my  father  had  a  private  gold-mine  somewhere  or  other  relieved  me 
of  all  uneasiness. 

I  was  not  far  from  right.  Every  man  has  within  himself  a  gold-mine 
whose  riches  are  limited  only  by  his  own  industry.  It  is  true,  it  sometimes 
happens  that  industry  does  not  avail,  if  a  man  lacks  that  something  which, 
for  want  of  a  better  name,  we  call  Luck.  My  father  was  a  person  of  untir 
ing  energy  and  ability ;  but  he  had  no  luck.  To  use  a  Rivermouth  saying, 
he  was  always  catching  sculpins  when  every  one  else  with  the  same  bait  was 
catching  mackerel. 

It  was  more  than  two  years  since  I  had  seen  my  parents.  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  bear  a  longer  separation.  Every  letter  from  New  Orleans — we 
got  two  or  three  a  month — gave  me  a  fit  of  homesickness  ;  and  when  it 
was  definitely  settled  that  my  father  and  mother  were  to  remain  in  the  South 
another  twelvemonth,  I  resolved  to  go  to  them. 

Since  Binny  Wallace's  death,  Pepper  Whitcomb  had  been  my  fidus 
Achates;  we  occupied  desks  near  each  other  at  school,  and  were  always 
together  in  play  hours.  We  shared  our  pocket-money  and  our  secrets,  — 
those  amazing  secrets  which  boys  have.  We  met  in  lonely  places  by  stealth, 
and  parted  like  conspirators  ;  we  couldn't  buy  a  jackknife  or  build  a  kite 
without  throwing  an  air  of  mystery  and  guilt  over  the  transaction. 

I  naturally  hastened  to  lay  my  New  Orleans  project  before  Pepper  Whit- 
comb,  having  dragged  him  for  that  purpose  to  a  secluded  spot  in  the  dark 
pine  woods  outside  the  town.  Pepper  listened  to  me  with  a  gravity  which 
he  will  not  be  able  to  surpass  when  he  becomes  Chief  Justice,  and  strongly 
advised  me  to  go. 

"  The  summer  vacation,"  said  Pepper,  "  lasts  six  weeks  ;  that  will  give  you 
a  fortnight  to  spend  in  New  Orleans,  allowing  two  weeks  each  way  for  the 
journey." 

I  wrung  his  hand  and  begged  him  to  accompany  me,  offering  to  defray  all 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  499 

the  expenses.  I  was  n't  anything,  if  I  was  n't  princely,  in  those  days.  After 
considerable  urging,  he  consented  to  go  on  terms  so  liberal.  The  whole 
thing  was  arranged ;  there  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  advise  Captain 
Nutter  of  my  plan. 

The  possibility  that  he  might  oppose  the  tour  never  entered  my  head.  I 
was  therefore  totally  unprepared  for  the  vigorous  negative  which  met  my 
proposal.  I  was  deeply  mortified,  moreover,  for  there  was  Pepper  Whit- 
comb  on  the  wharf,  at  the  foot  of  the  street,  waiting  for  me  to  come  and  let 
him  know  what  day  we  were  to  start. 

"  Go  to  New  Orleans  ?  Go  to  Jericho  !  "  exclaimed  Captain  Nutter. 
"  You  'd  look  pretty,  you  two,  philandering  off,  like  the  babes  in  the  wood, 
twenty-five  hundred  miles, '  with  all  the  world  before  you  where  to  choose ' !  " 

And  the  Captain's  features,  which  had  worn  an  indignant  air  as  he  began 
the  sentence,  relaxed  into  a  broad  smile.  Whether  it  was  at  the  felicity  of 
his  own  quotation,  or  at  the  mental  picture  he  drew  of  Pepper  and  myself  on 
our  travels,  I  could  n't  tell,  and  I  did  n't  care.  I  was  heart-broken.  I  felt  a 
trifle  sheepish,  too,  about  facing  my  chum  after  all  the  dazzling  inducements 
I  had  held  out  to  him. 

My  grandfather,  seeing  that  I  took  the  matter  seriously,  pointed  out  the 
difficulties  of  such  a  journey  and  the  great  expense  involved.  He  entered 
into  the  details  of  my  father's  money  troubles,  and  succeeded  in  making  it 
plain  to  me  that  my  wishes,  under  the  circumstances,  were  somewhat  unrea 
sonable.  It  was  in  no  cheerful  mood  that  I  joined  Pepper  at  the  end  of  the 
wharf. 

I  found  that  young  gentleman  leaning  against  the  bulkhead  gazing  intently 
towards  the  islands  in  the  harbor.  He  had  formed  a  telescope  of  his  hands, 
and  was  so  occupied  with  his  observations  as  to  be  oblivious  of-  my 
approach. 

"  Hullo  !  "  cried  Pepper,  dropping  his  hands.  "  Look  there  !  is  n't  that  a 
bark  coming  up  the  Narrows  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Just  at  the  left  of  Fishcrate  Island.  Don't  you  see  the  foremast  peeping 
above  the  old  derrick  ?  " 

Sure  enough  it  was  a  vessel  of  considerable  size,  slowly  beating  up  to 
town.  In  a  few  moments  more  the  other  two  masts  were  visible  above  the 
green  hillocks. 

"  Fore-topmasts  blown  away,"  said  Pepper.  "  Putting  in  for  repairs,  I 
guess." 

As  the  bark  lazily  crept  from  behind  the  last  of  the  islands,  she  let  go 
her  anchors  and  swung  round  with  the  tide.  Then  the  gleeful  chant  of  the 
sailors  at  the  capstan  came  to  us  pleasantly  across  the  water  The  vessel 
lay  within  three  quarters  of  a  mile  of  us,  and  we  could  plainly  see  the  men  at 
the  davits  lowering  the  starboard  long-boat.  It  no  sooner  touched  the 
stream  than  a  dozen  of  the  crew  scrambled  like  mice  over  the  side  of  the 
merchantman. 

In  a  neglected  seaport  like  Ri vermouth  the  arrival  of  a  large  ship  is  an 


5<DO  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [August, 

event  of  moment.  The  prospect  of  having  twenty  or  thirty  jolly  tars  let 
loose  on  the  peaceful  town  excites  divers  emotions  among  the  inhabitants. 
The  small  shopkeepers  along  the  wharves  anticipate  a  thriving  trade :  the 
proprietors  of  the  two  rival  boarding-houses  —  the  "  Wee  Drop  "  and  the 
"  Mariner's  Home  "  —  hasten  down  to  the  landing  to  secure  lodgers  ;  and 
the  female  population  of  Anchor  Lane  turn  out  to  a  woman,  for  a  ship  fresh 
from  sea  is  always  full  of  possible  husbands  and  long-lost  prodigal  sons. 

But,  aside  from  this,  there  is  scant  welcome  given  to  a  ship's  crew  in  Riv- 
ermouth.  The  toil-worn  mariner  is  a  sad  fellow  ashore,  judging  him  by  a 
severe  moral  standard. 

Once,  I  remember,  a  United  States  frigate  came  into  port  for  repairs  after 
a  storm.  She  lay  in  the  river  a  fortnight  or  more,  and  every  day  sent  us  a 
gang  of  sixty  or  seventy  of  our  country's  gallant  defenders,  who  spread  them 
selves  over  the  town,  doing  all  sorts  of  mad  things.  They  were  good- 
natured  enough,  but  full  of  old  Sancho.  The  "  Wee  Drop  "  proved  a  drop 
too  much  for  many  of  them.  They  went  singing  through  the  streets  at  mid 
night,  wringing  off  door-knockers,  shinning  up  water-spouts,  and  frightening 
the  Oldest  Inhabitant  nearly  to  death  by  popping  their  heads  into  his  second- 
story  window,  and  shouting  "  Fire  !  "  One  morning  a  blue-jacket  was  dis 
covered  in  a  perilous  plight,  half-way  up  the  steeple  of  the  South  Church, 
clinging  to  the  lightning-rod.  How  he  got  there  nobody  could  tell,  not  even 
blue-jacket  himself.  All  he  knew  was,  that  the  leg  of  his  trousers  had  caught 
on  a  nail,  and  there  he  stuck,  unable  to  move  either  way.  It  cost  the  town 
twenty  dollars  to  get  him  down  again.  He  directed  the  workmen  how  to 
splice  the  ladders  brought  to  his  assistance,  and  called  his  rescuers  "  butter- 
fingered  land-lubbers  "  with  delicious  coolness. 

But  those  were  man-of-war's  men.  The  sedate-looking  craft  now  lying  off 
Fishcrate  Island  was  n't  likely  to  carry  any  such  cargo.  Nevertheless,  we 
watched  the  coming  in  of  the  long-boat  with  considerable  interest. 

As  it  drew  near,  the  figure  of  the  man  pulling  the  stroke-oar  seemed  oddly 
familiar  to  me.  Where  could  I  have  seen  him  before  ?  When  and  where  ? 
His  back  was  towards  me,  but  there  was  something  about  that  closely 
cropped  head  that  I  recognized  instantly. 

"  Way  enough  ! "  cried  the  steersman,  and  all  the  oars  stood  upright  in 
the  air.  The  man  in  the  bow  seized  the  boat-hook,  and,  turning  round 
quickly,  showed  me  the  honest  face  of  Sailor  Ben  of  the  Typhoon. 

"  It 's  Sailor  Ben  !  "  I  cried,  nearly  pushing  Pepper  Whitcomb  overboard 
in  my  excitement. 

Sailor  Ben,  with  the  wonderful  pink  lady  on  his  arm,  and  the  ships  and 
stars  and  anchors  tattooed  all  over  him,  was  a  well-known  hero  among  my 
playmates.  And  there  he  was,  like  something  in  a  dream  come  true  ! 

I  did  n't  wait  for  my  old  acquaintance  to  get  firmly  on  the  wharf,  before  I 
grasped  his  hand  in  both  of  mine. 

"  Sailor  Ben,  don't  you  remember  me  ?  " 

He  evidently  did  not.  He  shifted  his  quid  from  one  cheek  to  the  other, 
and  looked  at  me  meditatively. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  501 

"  Lord  luv  ye,  lad,  I  don't  know  you.     I  was  never  here  afore  in  my  life." 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  enjoying  his  perplexity,  "  have  you  forgotten  the  voyage 
from  New  Orleans  in  the  Typhoon,  two  years  ago,  you  lovely  old  picture- 
book  ?  " 

Ah !  then  he  knew  me,  and  in  token  of  the  recollection  gave  my  hand 
such  a  squeeze  that  I  am  sure  an  unpleasant  change  came  over  my  counte 
nance. 

"  Bless  my  eyes,  but  you  have  growed  so  !  I  should  n't  have  knowed  you 
if  I  had  met  you  in  Singapore  !  " 

Without  stopping  to  inquire,  as  I  was  tempted  to  do,  why  he  was  more 
likely  to  recognize  me  in  Singapore  than  anywhere  else,  I  invited  him  to 
come  at  once  up  to  the  Nutter  House,  where  I  insured  him  a  warm  welcome 
from  the  Captain. 

"  Hold  steady,  Master  Tom,"  said  Sailor  Ben,  slipping  the  painter  through 
the  ring-bolt  and  tying  the  loveliest  knot  you  ever  saw  ;  "  hold  steady  till  I 
see  if  the  mate  can  let  me  off.  If  you  please,  sir,"  he  continued,  addressing 
the  steersman,  a  very  red-faced,  bow-legged  person,  "this  here  is  a  little 
shipmate  o'  mine  as  wants  to  talk  over  back  times  along  of  me,  if  so  it 's 
convenient." 

"  All  right,  Ben,"  returned  the  mate,  "  sha'  n't  want  you  for  an  hour." 

Leaving  one  man  in  charge  of  the  boat,  the  mate  and  the  rest  of  the  crew 
went  off  together.  In  the  mean  while  Pepper  Whitcomb  had  got  out  his 
cunner-line,  and  was  quietly  fishing  at  the  end  of  the  wharf,  as  if  to  give  me 
the  idea  that  he  was  n't  so  very  much  impressed  by  my  intimacy  with  so 
renowned  a  character  as  Sailor  Ben.  Perhaps  Pepper  was  a  little  jealous. 
At  any  rate,  he  refused  to  go  with  us  to  the  house. 

Captain  Nutter  was  at  home  reading  the  Ri vermouth  Barnacle.  He 
was  a  reader  to  do  an  editor's  heart  good ;  he  never  skipped  over  an  adver 
tisement,  even  if  he  had  read  it  fifty  times  before.  Then  the  paper  went  the 
rounds  of  the  neighborhood,  among  the  poor  people,  like  the  single  portable 
eye  which  the  three  blind  crones  passed  to  each  other  in  the  legend  of  King 
Acrisius.  The  Captain,  I  repeat,  was  wandering  in  the  labyrinths  of  the 
Rivermouth  Barnacle  when  I  led  Sailor  Ben  into  the  sitting-room. 

My  grandfather,  whose  inborn  courtesy  knew  no  distinctions,  received  my 
nautical  friend  as  if  he  had  been  an  admiral  instead  of  a  common  forecastle- 
hand.  Sailor  Ben  pulled  an  imaginary  tuft  of  hair  on  his  forehead,  and 
bowed  clumsily.  Sailors  have  a  way  of  using  their  forelock  as  a  sort  of 
handle  to  bow  with. 

The  old  tar  had  probably  never  been  in  so  handsome  an  apartment  in  all 
his  days,  and  nothing  could  induce  him  to  take  the  inviting  mahogany  chair 
which  the  Captain  wheeled  out  from  the  corner. 

The  abashed  mariner  stood  up  against  the  wall,  twirling  his  tarpaulin  in 
his  two  hands  and  looking  extremely  silly.  He  made  a  poor  show  in  a  gen 
tleman's  drawing-room,  but  what  a  fellow  he  had  been  in  his  day,  when  the 
gale  blew  great  guns  and  the  topsails  wanted  reefing  !  I  thought  of  him 
with  the  Mexican  squadron  off  Vera  Cruz,  where 


502  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [August, 

"  The  ringing  battle-bolt  sung  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam," 

and  he  did  n't  seem  awkward  or  ignoble  to  me,  for  all  his  shyness. 

As  Sailor  Ben  declined  to  sit  down,  the  Captain  did  not  resume  his  seat ; 
so  we  three  stood  in  a  constrained  manner  until  my  grandfather  went  to  the 
door  and  called  to  Kitty  to  bring  in  a  decanter  of  Madeira  and  two  glasses. 

"  My  grandson,  here,  has  talked  so  much  about  you,"  said  the  Captain, 
pleasantly,  "  that  you  seem  quite  like  an  old  acquaintance  to  me." 

"  Thankee,  sir,  thankee,"  returned  Sailor  Ben,  looking  as  guilty  as  if  he 
had  been  detected  in  picking  a  pocket. 

"  And  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  " 

"  Sailor  Ben,"  suggested  that  worthy. 

"  Mr.  Sailor  Ben,"  added  the  Captain,  smiling.  "Tom,  open  the  door, 
there 's  Kitty  with  the  glasses." 

I  opened  the  door,  and  Kitty  entered  the  room  bringing  the  things  on  a 


waiter,  which  she  was  about  to  set  on  the  table,  when  suddenly  she  uttered  a 
loud  shriek  ;  the  decanter  and  glasses  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  floor,  and 
Kitty,  as  white  as  a  sheet,  was  seen  flying  through  the  hall. 

"  It's  his  wraith  !  It's  his  wraith  *  !  "  we  heard  Kitty  shrieking,  in  the 
kitchen. 

My  grandfather  and  I  turned  with  amazement  to  Sailor  Ben.  His  eyes 
were  standing  out  of  his  head  like  a  lobster's. 

*  Ghost,  spirit. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  503 

"  It 's  my  own  little  Irish  lass  ! "  shouted  the  sailor,  and  he  darted  into  the 
hall  after  her. 

Even  then  we  scarcely  caught  the  meaning  of  his  words,  but  when  we  saw 
Sailor  Ben  and  Kitty  sobbing  on  each  other's  shoulder  in  the  kitchen,  we 
understood  it  all. 

"  I  begs  your  honor's  parden,  sir,"  said  Sailor  Ben,  lifting  his  tear-stained 
face  above  Kitty's  tumbled  hair ;  "  I  begs  your  honor's  parden  for  kicking 
up  a  rumpus  in  the  house,  but  it 's  my  own  little  Irish  lass  as  I  lost  so  long 
ago  ! " 

"  Heaven  preserve  us  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  blowing  his  nose  violently,  — 
a  transparent  dodge  to  hide  his  emotion. 

Miss  Abigail  was  in  an  upper  chamber,  sweeping  ;  but  on  hearing  the  un 
usual  racket  below,  she  scented  an  accident  and  came  ambling  down  stairs 
with  a  bottle  of  the  infallible  hot-drops  in  her  hand.  Nothing  but  the  firm 
ness  of  my  grandfather  prevented  her  from  giving  Sailor  Ben  a  table-spoon 
ful  on  the  spot.  But  when  she  learned  what  had  come  about,  —  that  this 
was  Kitty's  husband,  that  Kitty  Collins  was  n't  Kitty  Collins  now,  but  Mrs. 
Benjamin  Watson,  of  Nantucket,  —  the  good  soul  sat  down  on  the  meal- 
chest  and  sobbed  as  if — to  quote  from  Captain  Nutter  —  as  if  a  husband  of 
her  own  had  turned  up  !  *» 

A  happier  set  of  people  than  we  were  never  met  together  in  a  dingy 
kitchen  or  anywhere  else.  The  Captain  ordered  a  fresh  decanter  of  Madeira, 
and  made  all  hands,  excepting  myself,  drink  a  cup  to  the  return  of  "  the 
prodigal  sea-son,"  as  he  persisted  in  calling  Sailor  Ben. 

When  Sailor  Ben's  hour  had  expired,  we  walked  with  him  down  to  the 
wharf,  where  the  Captain  held  a  consultation  with  the  mate,  which  resulted 
in  an  extension  of  Mr.  Watson's  leave  of  absence,  and  afterwards  in  his  dis 
charge  from  his  ship.  We  then  went  to  the  "  Mariner's  Home  "  to  engage 
a  room  for  him,  as  he  would  n't  hear  of  accepting  the  hospitalities  of  the 
Nutter  House. 

"  You  see,  I  'm  only  an  uneddicated  man,"  he  remarked  to  my  grandfather, 
by  way  of  explanation. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN  WHICH   SAILOR  BEN   SPINS   A  YARN. 

OF  course  we  were  all  very  curious  to  learn  what  had  befallen  Sailor  Ben 
that  morning  long  ago,  when  he  bade  his  little  bride  good  by,  and  disap 
peared  so  mysteriously. 

After  tea,  that  same  evening,  we  assembled  around  the  table  in  the 
kitchen,  —  the  only  place  where  Sailor  Ben  felt  at  home,  —  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  say  for  himself. 

The  candles  were  snuffed,  and  a  pitcher  of  foaming  nut-brown  ale  was  set 
at  the  elbow  of  the  speaker,  who  was  evidently  embarrassed  by  the  respecta 
bility  of  his  audience,  consisting  of  Captain  Nutter,  Miss  Abigail,  myself, 


504  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [August, 

and  Kitty,  whose  face  shone  with  happiness  like  one  of  the  polished  tin  plat 
ters  on  the  dresser. 

"  Well,  my  hearties,"  commenced  Sailor  Ben,  —  then  he  stopped  short 
and  turned  very  red,  as  it  struck  him  that  maybe  this  was  not  quite  the 
proper  way  to  address  a  dignitary  like  the  Captain  and  a  severe  elderly  lady 
like  Miss  Abigail  Nutter,  who  sat  bolt  upright  staring  at  him  as  she  would 
have  stared  at  the  Tycoon  of  Japan  himself. 

"  I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  at  spinnin'  a  yarn,"  remarked  Sailor  Ben,  apolo 
getically,  "  'specially  when  the  yarn  is  all  about  a  man  as  has  made  a  fool  of 
hisself,  an'  'specially  when  that  man's  name  is  Benjamin  Watson." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  Captain  Nutter,  rapping  on  the  table  encouragingly. 

"  Thankee,  sir,  thankee.  I  go  back  to  the  time  when  Kitty  an'  me  was 
livin'  in  lodgin's  by  the  dock  in  New  York.  We  was  as  happy,  sir,  as  two 
porpusses,  which  they  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin.  But  when  I  seed  the 
money  gittin'  low  in  the  locker,  —  Kitty's  starboard  stockin',  savin'  your 
presence,  marm,  —  I  got  down-hearted  like,  seein'  as  I  should  be  obleeged 
to  ship  agin,  for  it  did  n't  seem  as  I  could  do  much  ashore.  An'  then  the 
sea  was  my  nat'ral  spear  of  action.  I  was  n't  exactly  born  on  it,  look  you, 
but  I  fell  into  it  the  fust  time  I  was  let  out  arter  my  birth.  My  mother 
slipped  her  cable  for  a  heavily  port  afore  I  was  old  enough  to  hail  her  ;  so 
I  larnt  to  look  on  the  ocean  for  a  sort  of  stepmother,  —  an'  a  precious  hard 
one  she  has  been  to  me. 

"  The  idee  of  leavin'  Kitty  so  soon  arter  our  marriage  went  agin  my  grain 
considerable.  I  cruised  along  the  docks  for  somethin'  to  do  in  the  way  of 
stevedore  :  an*  though  I  picked  up  a  stray  job  here  and  there,  I  did  n't  arn 
enough  to  buy  ship-bisket  for  a  rat,  let  alone  feedin'  two  human  mouths. 
There  was  n't  nothin'  honest  I  would  n't  have  turned  a  hand  to  ;  but  the 
'longshoremen  gobbled  up  all  the  work,  an'  a  outsider  like  me  did  n't  stand 
a  show. 

"  Things  got  from  bad  to  worse  ;  the  month's  rent  took  all  our  cash  ex 
cept  a  dollar  or  so,  an'  the  sky  looked  kind  o'  squally  fore  an'  aft.  Well,  I 
set  out  one  mornin',  —  that  identical  unlucky  mornin',  —  determined  to  come 
back  an'  toss  some  pay  into  Kitty's  lap,  if  I  had  to  sell  my  jacket  for  it.  I 
spied  a  brig  unloadin'  coal  at  pier  No.  47,  —  how  well  I  remembers  it !  I 
hailed  the  mate,  an'  offered  myself  for  a  coal-heaver.  But  I  was  n't  wanted, 
as  he  told  me  civilly  enough,  which  was  better  treatment  than  usual.  As  I 
turned  off  rather  glum  I  was  signalled  by  one  of  them  sleek,  smooth-spoken 
rascals  with  a  white  hat  an'  a  weed  on  it,  as  is  always  goin'  about  the  piers 
a-seekin'  who  they  may  devower. 

"  We  sailors  know  'em  for  rascals  from  stem  to  starn,  but  somehow  every 
fresh  one  fleeces  us  jest  as  his  mate  did  afore  him.  We  don't  larn  nothin' 
by  exper'ence  ;  we  're  jest  no  better  than  a  lot  of  babbys  with  no  brains. 

" '  Good  mornin',  my  man,'  sez  the  chap,  as  iley  as  you  please. 

" '  Mornin',  sir,'  sez  I. 

"  *  Lookin'  for  a  job  ? '  sez  he. 

"  *  Through  the  big  end  of  a  telescope,'  sez  I,  —  meanin'  that  the  chances 
for  a  job  looked  very  small  from  my  pint  of  view. 


1869.] 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


505 


"  '  You  're  the  man  for  my  money,'  sez  the  sharper,  smilin'  as  innocent  as 
a  cherubim  ;  *  jest  step  in  here,  till  we  talk  it  over.' 

"  So  I  goes  with  him,  like  a  nat'ral-born  idiot,  into  a  little  grocery-shop 
near  by,  where  we  sets  down  at  a  table  with  a  bottle  atween  us.  Then  it 


comes  out  as  there  is  a  New  Bedford  whaler  about  to  start  for  the  fishin' 
grounds,  an'  jest  one  able-bodied  sailor  like  me  is  wanted  to  make  up  the 
crew.  Would  I  go  ?  Yes,  I  would  n't,  on  no  terms. 

"  « I  '11  bet  you  fifty  dollars,'  sez  he,  « that  you  '11  come  back  fust  mate.' 

" '  I  '11  bet  you  a  hundred,'  sez  I,  *  that  I  don't,  for  I  've  signed  papers  as 
keeps  me  ashore,  an'  the  parson  has  witnessed  the  deed.' 

"So  we  sat  there,  he  urgin'  me  to  ship,  an'  I  chaffin'  him  cheerful  over 
the  bottle. 

"  Arter  awhile  I  begun  to  feel  a  little  queer  ;  things  got  foggy  in  my  up 
per  works,  an'  I  remembers,  faint-like,  of  signin'  a  paper ;  then  I  remembers 
bein'  in  a  small  boat ;  an'  then  I  remembers  nothin'  until  I  heard  the  mate's 
whistle  pipin'  all  hands  on  deck.  I  tumbled  up  with  the  rest,  an'  there  I 
was,  —  on  board  of  a  whaler  outward  bound  for  a  three  years'  cruise,  an'  my 
dear  little  lass  ashore  awaitin'  for  me." 

"  Miserable  wretch  !  "  said  Miss  Abigail,  in  a  voice  that  vibrated  among 
the  tin  platters  on  the  dresser.  This  was  Miss  Abigail's  way  of  testifying 
her  sympathy. 

"  Thankee,  marm,"  returned  Sailor  Ben,  doubtfully. 


506  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [August, 

"  No  talking  to  the  man  at  the  wheel,"  cried  the  Captain.  Upon  which  we 
all  laughed.  "  Spin  !  "  added  my  grandfather. 

Sailor  Ben  resumed  :  — 

"  I  leave  you  to  guess  the  wretchedness  as  fell  upon  me,  for  I  've  not  got 
the  gift  to  tell  you.  There  I  was  down  on  the  ship's  books  for  a  three  years' 
viage,  an'  no  help  for  it.  I  feel  nigh  to  six  hundred  years  old  when  I  think 
how  long  that  viage  was.  There  is  n't  no  hour-glass  as  runs  slow  enough  to 
keep  a  tally  of  the  slowness  of  them  fust  hours.  But  I  done  my  duty  like  a 
man,  seein'  there  was  n't  no  way  of  gittin'  out  of  it.  I  told  my  shipmates  of 
the  trick  as  had  been  played  on  me,  an'  they  tried  to  cheer  me  up  a  bit ;  but 
I  was  sore  sorrowful  for  a  long  spell.  Many  a  night  on  watch  I  put  my  face 
in  my  hands  and  sobbed  for  thinkin'  of  the  little  woman  left  among  the  land- 
sharks,  an'  no  man  to  have  an  eye  on  her,  God  bless  her !  " 

Here  Kitty  softly  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  Sailor  Ben,  and  rested  one  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"  Our  adventures  among  the  whales,  I  take  it,  does  n't  consarn  the  pres 
ent  company  here  assembled.  So  I  give  that  the  go  by.  There  's  an  end  to 
everything  even  to  a  whalin'  viage.  My  heart  all  but  choked  me  the  day  we 
put  into  New  Bedford  with  our  cargo  of  ile.  I  got  my  three  years'  pay  in  a 
lump,  an'  made  for  New  York  like  a  flash  of  lightnin'.  The  people  hove  to 
and  looked  at  me,  as  I  rushed  through  the  streets  like  a  madman,  until  I 
came  to  the  spot  where  the  lodgin'-house  stood  on  West  Street.  But,  Lord 
luv  ye,  there  was  n't  no  sech  lodgin'-house  there,  but  a  great  new  brick  shop. 

"  I  made  bold  to  go  in  an'  ask  arter  the  old  place,  but  nobody  knowed 
nothin'  about  it,  save  as  it  had  been  torn  down  two  years  or  more.  I  was 
adrift  now,  for  I  had  reckoned  all  them  days  and  nights  on  gittin'  word  of 
Kitty  from  Dan  Shackford,  the  man  as  kept  the  lodgin'. 

"  As  I  stood  there,  with  all  the  wind  knocked  out  of  my  sails,  the  idee  of 
runnin'  alongside  the  perlice-station  popped  into  my  head.  The  perlice 
was  likely  to  know  the  latitude  of  a  man  like  Dan  Shackford,  who  was  n't 
over  an'  above  respecktible.  They  did  know,  —  he  had  died  in  the  Tombs 
jail  that  day  twelvemonth.  A  coincydunce,  was  n't  it  ?  I  was  ready  to  drop 
when  they  told  me  this  ;  howsomever,  I  bore  up  an'  give  the  chief  a  notion 
of  the  fix  I  was  in.  He  writ  a  notice  which  I  put  into  the  newspapers  every 
day  for  three  months  ;  but  nothin'  come  of  it.  I  cruised  over  the  city  week 
in  and  week  out ;  I  went  to  every  sort  of  place  where  they  hired  women 
hands  ;  I  did  n't  leave  a  think  undone  that  a  uneddicated  man  could  do. 
But  nothin'  come  of  it.  I  don't  believe  there  was  a  wretcheder  soul  in  that 
big  city  of  wretchedness  than  me.  Sometimes  I  wanted  to  lay  down  in  the 
streets  and  die. 

"  Driftin'  disconsolate  one  day  among  the  shippin',  who  should  I  overhaul 
but  the  identical  smooth-spoken  chap  with  the  white  hat  an'  a  weed  on  it ! 
I  did  n't  know  if  there  was  any  sperit  left  in  me,  till  I  clapped  eye  on  his 
very  onpleasant  countenance.  *  You  villain  ! '  sez  I,  '  where  's  my  little  Irish 
lass  as  you  dragged  me  away  from  ? '  an'  I  lighted  on  him,  hat  and  all, 
like  that!" 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  507 

Here  Sailor  Ben  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  deal  table  with  the  force  of 
a  sledge-hammer.  Miss  Abigail  gave  a  start,  and  the  ale  leaped  up  in  the 
pitcher  like  a  miniature  fountain. 

"  I  begs  your  parden,  ladies  and  gentlemen  all ;  but  the  thought  of  that 
feller  with  his  ring  an'  his  watch-chain  an'  his  walrus  face,  is  alus  too  many 
for  me.  I  was  for  pitchin'  him  into  the  North  River,  when  a  perliceman  pre 
vented  me  from  benefitin'  the  human  family.  I  had  to  pay  five  dollars  for 
hittin'  the  chap  (they  said  it  was  salt  an'  buttery),  an'  that 's  what  I  call  a 
neat,  genteel  luxury.  It  was  worth  double  the  money  jest  to  see  that  white 
hat,  with  a  weed  on  it,  layin'  on  the  wharf  like  a  busted  accordiun. 

"  Arter  months  of  useless  sarch,  I  went  to  sea  agin.  I  never  got  into  a 
foren  port  but  I  kept  a  watch  out  for  Kitty.  Once  I  thought  I  seed  her  in 
Liverpool,  but  it  was  only  a  gal  as  looked  like  her.  The  numbers  of  women 
in  different  parts  of  the  world  as  looked  like  her  was  amazin'.  So  a  good 
many  years  crawled  by,  an'  I  wandered  from  place  to  place,  never  givin'  up 
the  sarch.  I  might  have  been  chief  mate  scores  of  times,  maybe  master ; 
but  I  had  n't  no  ambition.  I  seed  many  strange  things  in  them  years,  —  out 
landish  people  an'  cities,  storms,  shipwracks,  an'  battles.  I  seed  many  a  true 
mate  go  down,  an'  sometimes  I  envied  them  what  went  to  their  rest.  But 
these  things  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

"  About  a  year  ago  I  shipped  on  board  the  Bellephoebe  yonder,  an'  of  all 
the  strange  winds  as  ever  blowed,  the  strangest  an'  the  best  was  the  wind  as 
blowed  me  to  this  here  blessed  spot.  I  can't  be  too  thankful.  That  I  'm  as 
thankful  as  it  is  possible  for  an  uneddicated  man  to  be,  He  knows  as  reads 
the  hearts  of  all." 

Here  ended  Sailor  Ben's  yarn,  which  I  have  written  down  in  his  own 
homely  words  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall  them.  After  he  had  finished,  the 
Captain  shook  hands  with  him  and  served  out  the  ale. 

It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  the  two  old  lovers  sitting  side  by  side,  in 
spite  of  all,  drinking  from  the  same  little  cup,  —  a  battered  zinc  dipper  which 
Sailor  Ben  had  unslung  from  a  strap  round  his  waist.  I  think  I  never  saw 
him  without  this  dipper  and  a  sheath-knife  suspended  just  back  of  his  hip, 
ready  for  any  convivial  occasion. 

We  had  a  merry  time  of  it.  The  Captain  was  in  great  force  this  evening, 
and  not  only  related  his  famous  exploit  in  the  war  of  1812,  but  regaled  the 
company  with  a  dashing  sea-song  from  Mr.  Shakespeare's  play  of  The  Tem 
pest.  He  had  a  mellow  tenor  voice  (not  Shakespeare,  but  the  Captain),  and 
rolled  out  the  verse  with  a  will :  — 

"  The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 

The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 
Lov'd  Mall,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 
But  none  of  us  car'd  for  Kate." 

"  A  very  good  song  and  very  well  sung,"  says  Sailor  Ben  ;  "  but  some  of 
us  does  care  for  Kate.  Is  this  Mr.  Shawkspear  a  sea-farin'  man,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present,"  replied  the  Captain,  with  a  monstrous  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 


508  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [August, 

The  clock  was  striking  ten  when  the  party  broke  up.  The  Captain  walked 
to  the  "  Mariner's  Home  "  with  his  guest,  in  order  to  question  him  regard 
ing  his  future  movements. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  ain't  as  young  as  I  was,  an'  I  don't  cal'ulate  to 
go  to  sea  no  more.  I  proposes  to  drop  anchor  here,  an'  hug  the  land  until 
the  old  hulk  goes  to  pieces.  I  've  got  two  or  three  thousand  dollars  in  the 
locker,  an'  expects  to  git  on  uncommon  comfortable  without  askin'  no  odds 
from  the  Assylum  for  Decayed  Mariners." 

My  grandfather  indorsed  the  plan  warmly,  and  Sailor  Ben  did  drop  an 
chor  in  Rivermouth,  where  he  speedily  became  one  of  the  institutions  of  the 
town. 

His  first  step  was  to  buy  a  small  one-story  cottage  located  at  the  head  of 
the  wharf,  within  gun-shot  of  the  Nutter  House.  To  the  great  amusement 
of  my  grandfather,  Sailor  Ben  painted  the  cottage  a  light  sky-blue,  and  ran 
a  broad  black  stripe  around  it  just  under  the  eaves.  In  this  stripe  he  painted 
white  port-holes,  at  regular  distances,  making  his  residence  look  as  much 
like  a  man-of-war  as  possible.  With  a  short  flag-staff  projecting  over  the 
door  like  a  bowsprit,  the  effect  was  quite  magical.  My  description  of  the 
exterior  of  this  palatial  residence  is  complete  when  I  add  that  the  proprietor 
nailed  a  horseshoe  against  the  front-door  to  keep  off  the  witches,  —  a  very 
necessary  precaution  in  these  latitudes. 

The  inside  of  Sailor  Ben's  abode  was  not  less  striking  than  the  outside. 
The  cottage  contained  two  rooms  :  the  one  opening  on  the  wharf  he  called 
his  cabin ;  here  he  ate  and  slept.  His  few  tumblers  and  a  frugal  collection 
of  crockery  were  set  in  a  rack  suspended  over  the  table,  which  had  a  cleat  of 
wood  nailed  round  the  edge  to  prevent  the  dishes  from  sliding  off  in  case  of 
a  heavy  sea.  Hanging  against  the  walls  were  three  or  four  highly-colored 
prints  of  celebrated  frigates,  and  a  lithograph  picture  of  a  young  woman  in 
sufficiently  clad  in  the  American  flag.  This  was  labelled  "  Kitty,"  though 
I  'm  sure  it  looked  no  more  like  her  than  I  did.  A  walrus-tooth  with  an 
Esquimaux  engraved  on  it,  a  shark's  jaw,  and  the  blade  of  a  sword-fish  were 
among  the  enviable  decorations  of  this  apartment.  In  one  corner  stood  his 
bunk,  or  bed,  and  in  the  other  his  well-worn  sea-chest,  a  perfect  Pandora's 
box  of  mysteries.  You  would  have  thought  yourself  in  the  cabin  of  a  real 
ship. 

The  little  room  aft,  separated  from  the  cabin  by  a  sliding  door,  was  the 
caboose.  It  held  a  cooking-stove,  pots,  pans,  and  groceries  ;  also  a  lot  of 
fishing-lines  and  coils  of  tarred  twine,  which  made  the  place  smell  like  a  fore 
castle,  and  a  delightful  smell  it  is  —  to  those  who  fancy  it. 

Kitty  did  n't  leave  our  service,  but  played  housekeeper  for  both  establish 
ments,  returning  at  night  to  Sailor  Ben's.  He  shortly  added  a  wherry  to  his 
worldly  goods,  and  in  the  fishing  season  made  a  very  handsome  income. 
During  the  winter  he  employed  himself  manufacturing  crab-nets,  for  which 
he  found  no  lack  of  customers. 

His  popularity  among  the  boys  was  immense.  A  jackknife  in  his  expert 
hand  was  a  whole  chest  of  tools.  He  could  whittle  out  anything  from  a 


1869.]  Lawrence  among  the  Coal-Mines .  509 

wooden  chain  to  a  Chinese  pagoda,  or  a  full-rigged  seventy-four  a  foot  long. 
To  own  a  ship  of  Sailor  Ben's  building  was  to  be  exalted  above  your  fellow- 
creatures.  He  did  n't  carve  many,  and  those  he  refused  to  sell,  choosing  to 
present  them  to  his  young  friends,  of  whom  Tom  Bailey,  you  may  be  sure, 
was  one. 

How  delightful  it  was  of  winter  nights  to  sit  in  his  cosey  cabin,  close  to 
the  ship's  stove  (he  wouldn't  hear  of  having  a  fireplace),  and  listen  to 
Sailor  Ben's  yarns  !  In  the  early  summer  twilights,  when  he  sat  on  the 
door-step  splicing  a  rope  or  mending  a  net,  he  always  had  a  bevy  of  bloom 
ing  young  faces  alongside. 

The  dear  old  fellow  !  How  tenderly  the  years  touched  him  after  this  !  — 
all  the  more  tenderly,  it  seemed,  for  having  roughed  him  so  cruelly  in  other 
days. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


LAWRENCE  AMONG  THE  COAL-MINES. 

IN  the  next  chamber  they  found  two  men  and  a  boy.  The  miner,  whom 
they  had  already  heard  at  his  work,  through  the  immense  partition-wall 
—  or  "  pillar,"  as  it  is  called,  —  was  standing  on  a  pile  of  rubbish  driving  his 
drill  horizontally  into  the  face  of  the  coal-seam  near  the  top.  The  laborer 
was  separating  the  large  fragments  of  coal  from  the  slate,  and  the  boy  was 
sitting  on  a  heap,  separating  the  smaller  pieces.  They  cast  the  slate  aside, 
and  threw  the  coal  into  a  car,  which  had  been  drawn  in  on  the  track  to  the 
end  of  the  chamber  to  be  loaded. 

In  another  chamber  they  found  the  miner  working  in  under  the  seam.  He 
was  several  feet  beyond  the  face  of  it,  and  the  top  part  hung  over  him  and 
his  little  lamp  like  a  tremendous  ledge  of  black  rock.  It  was  so  low  that  he 
could  not  stand  erect.  The  boys,  stooping,  went  in  where  he  was  at  work. 

"  I  have  just  this  corner  to  blow  out,"  he  told  them  ;  "  then  I  shall  put  in 
a  charge  under  the  roof,  and  bring  down  all  this  coal  overhead." 

Lawrence  asked  if  he  did  n't  find  it  hard  work  to  drill  where  he  had  to 
stoop  so  low. 

"  This  is  nothing,"  said  the  man.  And  he  went  on  to  tell  how  he  had 
worked  in  coal-seams  so  thin  that  the  miner  could  never  stand  upright,  from 
the  moment  he  entered  his  chamber  till  he  left  it.  "  I  mined  in  one  such," 
said  he,  "  that  pitched  like  the  roof  of  a  house.  Imagine  two  steep  roofs,  one 
four  feet  above  the  other,  and  yourself  getting  out  coal  between  them." 

"  How  did  you  manage  it  ?    Did  you  work  down  from  the  top  ?  " 

"  We  worked  up  from  the  bottom.  We  kept  the  gangway  below  us,  and 
run  the  coal  down  to  it  in  chutes." 

In  another  chamber  they  found  the  miner  just  preparing  to  blast.    The 


5io 


Lawrence  among  the  Coal-Mincs. 


[August, 


boys  retreated  around  the  curve  at  the  entrance,  and  waited  for  the  fire  to 
eat  its  way  up  through  the  fuse  into  the  powder.  Then  came  the  explosion. 
Lawrence  was  expecting  it,  this  time,  and  was  not  frightened  ;  yet  there  was 
to  his  inexperienced  nerves  something  painful  in  the  sudden  concussion  of 
air,  which  seemed  to  smite  him  with  an  angry  buffet  in  the  face  and  breast. 
The  vast  pillars  of  coal  that  upheld  the  hill  seemed  to  tremble ;  and  the 
roaring  gust  of  sound  swept  on  through  the  recesses  of  the  mines. 

In  traversing  the  gangways  and  chambers,  Lawrence  noticed  many  places 
where  there  had  evidently  once  been  openings  in  the  walls,  but  which  were 
now  closed.  Some  were  boarded  up,  and  some  were  built  up  with  slabs  of 
slate.  Those  on  one  side  of  the  gangway,  Owen  said,  were  the  entrances 
to  old  chambers  that-had  been  worked  out  and  closed  up.  "  Those  on  the 
other  side  are  air-courses.  They  go  through  into  another  gangway,  parallel 
to  this.  Wherever  we  run  one  gangway,  look,  we  run  another  alongside  of 
it.  They  are  thirty  feet  apart.  The  chambers  branch  off  to  the  right  from 
the  gangway  we  are  in ;  and  they  branch  off  to  the  left  from  the  other." 

"  Why  do  you  run  two  gangways  ?  " 

"  To  get  ventilation.  You  don't  understand."  Owen,  in  his  eagerness  to 
explain,  dropped  down  in  a  half-sitting  posture  against  the  coal-pillar,  and, 
taking  a  piece  of  chalk  from  his  pocket,  drew  a  white  line  down  a  leg  of  his 
trousers,  while  Lawrence  held  his  little  lamp,  and  Mr.  Clarence  and  Muff 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


SEPTEMBER,    1869. 


No.  IX. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  XVII. 

HOW     WE    ASTONISHED    THE    RIVERMOUTHIANS. 

AILOR  BEN'S  arrival  partly  drove  the  New 
Orleans  project  from  my  brain.  Besides,  there 
was  just  then  a  certain  movement  on  foot  by 
the  Centipede  Club  which  helped  to  engross 
my  attention. 

Pepper  Whitcomb  took  the  Captain's  veto 
philosophically,  observing  that  he  thought  from 
the  first  the  governor  would  n't  let  me  go.  I 
don't  think  Pepper  was  quite  honest  in  that 
But  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

Among  the  few  changes  that  have  taken  place 
in  Rivermouth  during  the  past  twenty  years 
there  is  one  which  I  regret.  I  lament  the  re 
moval  of  all  those  varnished  iron  cannon  which 
used  to  do  duty  as  posts  at  the  corners  of 
streets  leading  from  the  river.  They  were 
quaintly  ornamental,  each  set  upon  end  with 
a  solid  shot  soldered  into  its  mouth,  and  gave 
to  that  part  of  the  town  a  picturesqueness  very 
poorly  atoned  for  by  the  conventional  wooden 
stakes  that  have  deposed  them. 

These  guns  ("  old  sogers  "  the  boys  called 
them)  had  their  story,  like  everything  else  in  Rivermouth.  When  that 
everlasting  last  war  —  the  war  of  1812,  I  mean  —  came  to  an  end,  all  the 
brigs,  schooners,  and  barks  fitted  out  at  this  port  as  privateers  were  as 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.   IX.  4O 


5  TO  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [September, 

eager  to  get  rid  of  their  useless  twelve-pounders  and  swivels  as  they  had 
previously  been  to  obtain  them.  Many  of  the  pieces  had  cost  large  sums, 
and  now  they  were  little  better  than  so  much  crude  iron,  —  not  so  good,  in 
fact,  for  they  were  clumsy  things  to  break  up  and  melt  over.  The  govern 
ment  did  n't  want  them ;  private  citizens  did  n't  want  them ;  they  were  a 
drug  in  the  market. 

But  there  was  one  man,  ridiculous  beyond  his  generation,  who  got  it  into 
his  head  that  a  fortune  was  to  be  made  out  of  these  same  guns.  To  buy 
them  all,  to  hold  on  to  them  until  war  was  declared  again  (as  he  had  no 
doubt  it  would  be  in  a  few  months),  and  then  sell  out  at  fabulous  prices,  — 
this  was  the  daring  idea  that  addled  the  pate  of  Silas  Trefethen,  "  Dealer  in 
E.  &  W.  I.  Goods  and  Groceries,"  as  the  faded  sign  over  his  shop-door 
informed  the  public. 

Silas  went  shrewdly  to  work,  buying  up  every  old  cannon  he  could  lay 
hands  on.  His  back-yard  was  soon  crowded  with  broken-down  gun-car 
riages,  and  his  barn  with  guns,  like  an  arsenal.  When  Silas's  purpose  got 
wind  it  was  astonishing  how  valuable  that  thing  became  which  just  now  was 
worth  nothing  at  all. 

"  Ha,  ha  ! "  thought  Silas  ;  "  somebody  else  is  tryin'  tu  git  control  of  the 
market.  But  I  guess  I  've  got  the  start  of  htm" 

So  he  went  on  buying  and  buying,  oftentimes  paying  double  the  original 
price  of  the  article.  People  in  the  neighboring  towns  collected  all  the  worth 
less  ordnance  they  could  find,  and  sent  it  by  the  cart-load  to  Rivermouth. 

When  his  barn  was  full,  Silas  began  piling  the  rubbish  in  his  cellar,  then 
in  his  parlor.  He  mortgaged  the  stock  of  his  grocery-store,  mortgaged  his 
house,  his  barn,  his  horse,  and  would  have  mortgaged  himself,  if  any  one 
would  have  taken  him  as  security,  in  order  to  carry  on  the  grand  speculation. 
He  was  a  ruined  man,  and  as  happy  as  a  lark. 

Surely  poor  Silas  was  cracked,  like  the  majority  of  his  own  cannon.  More 
or  less  crazy  he  must  have  been  always.  Years  before  this  he  purchased  an 
elegant  rosewood  coffin,  and  kept  it  in  one  of  the  spare  rooms  in  his  resi 
dence.  He  even  had  his  name  engraved  on  the  silver-plate,  leaving  a  blank 
after  the  word  "  Died." 

The  blank  was  filled  up  in  due  time,  and  well  it  was  for  Silas  that  he 
secured  so  stylish  a  coffin  in  his  opulent  days,  for  when  he  died  his  worldly 
wealth  would  not  have  bought  him  a  pine  box,  to  say  nothing  of  rosewood. 
He  never  gave  up  expecting  a  war  with  Great  Britain.  Hopeful  and  radiant 
to  the  last,  his  dying  words  were,  England — war — few  days — great 
profits  ! 

It  was  that  sweet  old  lady,  Dame  Jocelyn,  who  told  me  the  story  of  Silas 
Trefethen ;  for  these  things  happened  long  before  my  day.  Silas  died  in 
1817. 

At  Trefethen's  death  his  unique  collection  came  under  the  auctioneer's 
hammer.  Some  of  the  larger  guns  were  sold  to  the  town,  and  planted  at  the 
corners  of  divers  streets  ;  others  went  off  to  the  iron-foundry ;  the  balance, 
numbering  twelve,  were  dumped  down  on  a  deserted  wharf  at  the  foot  of 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  571 

Anchor  Lane,  where,  summer  after  summer,  they  rested  at  their  ease  in  the 
grass  and  fungi,  pelted  in  autumn  by  the  rain,  and  annually  buried  by  the 
winter  snow.  It  is  with  these  twelve  guns  that  our  story  has  to  deal. 

The  wharf  where  they  reposed  was  shut  off  from  the  street  by  a  high 
fence,  —  a  silent,  dreamy  old  wharf,  covered  with  strange  weeds  and  mosses. 
On  account  of  its  seclusion  and  the  good  fishing  it  afforded,  it  was  much  fre 
quented  by  us  boys. 

There  we  met  many  an  afternoon  to  throw  out  our  lines,  or  play  leap-frog 
among  the  rusty  cannon.  They  were  famous  fellows  in  our  eyes.  What  a 
racket  they  had  made  in  the  heyday  of  their  unchastened  youth  !  What 
stories  they  might  tell  now,  if  their  puffy  metallic  lips  could  only  speak ! 
Once  they  were  lively  talkers  enough  ;  but  there  the  grim  sea-dogs  lay,  silent 
and  forlorn  in  spite  of  all  their  former  growlings. 

They  always  seemed  to  me  like  a  lot  of  venerable  disabled  tars,  stretched 
out  on  a  lawn  in  front  of  a  hospital,  gazing  seaward,  and  mutely  lamenting 
their  lost  youth. 

But  once  more  they  were  destined  to  lift  up  their  dolorous  voices,  —  once 
more  ere  they  keeled  over  and  lay  speechless  for  all  time.  And  this  is  how 
it  befell. 

Jack  Harris,  Charley  Marden,  Harry  Blake,  and  myself  were  fishing  off 
the  grass-grown  wharf  one  afternoon,  when  a  thought  flashed  upon  me  like 
an  inspiration. 

"  I  say,  boys  !  "  I  cried,  hauling  in  my  line  hand  over  hand,  "  I  've  got 
something  !  " 

"  What  does  it  pull  like,  youngster  ?  "  asked  Harris,  looking  down  at  the 
taut  line  and  expecting  to  see  a  big  perch  at  last. 

"  O,  nothing  in  the  fish  way,"  I  returned,  laughing  ;  "  it 's  about  the  old 
guns." 

"  What  about  them  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  what  jolly  fun  it  would  be  to  set  one  of  the  old  sogers  on 
his  legs  and  serve  him  out  a  ration  of  gunpowder." 

Up  came  the  three  lines  in  a  jiffy.  An  enterprise  better  suited  to  the 
disposition  of  my  companions  could  not  have  been  proposed. 

In  a  short  time  we  had  one  of  the  smaller  cannon  over  on  its  back  and 
were  busy  scraping  the  green  rust  from  the  touch-hole.  The  mould  had 
spiked  the  gun  so  effectually,  that  for  a  while  we  fancied  we  should  have  to 
give  up  our  attempt  to  resuscitate  the  old  soger. 

"  A  long  gimlet  would  clear  it  out,"  said  Charley  Marden,  "  if  we  only  had 
one." 

I  looked  to  see  if  Sailor  Ben's  flag  was  flying  at  the  cabin  door,  for  he 
always  took  in  the  colors  when  he  went  off  fishing. 

"  When  you  want  to  know  if  the  Admiral 's  abroad,  jest  cast  an  eye  to  the 
buntin',  my  hearties,"  says  Sailor  Ben. 

Sometimes  in  a  jocose  mood  he  called  himself  the  Admiral,  and  I  am  sure 
he  deserved  to  be  one.  The  Admiral's  flag  was  flying,  and  I  soon  procured 
a  gimlet  from  his  carefully  kept  tool-chest. 


572  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [September, 

Before  long  we  had  the  gun  in  working  order.  A  newspaper  lashed  to 
the  end  of  a  lath  served  as  a  swab  to  dust  out  the  bore.  Jack  Harris  blew 
through  the  touch-hole  and  pronounced  all  clear. 

Seeing  our  task  accomplished  so  easily,  we  turned  our  attention  to  the 
other  guns,  which  lay  in  all  sorts  of  postures  in  the  rank  grass.  Borrowing 
a  rope  from  Sailor  Ben,  we  managed  with  immense  labor  to  drag  the  heavy 
pieces  into  position  and  place  a  brick  under  each  muzzle  to  give  it  the  proper 
elevation.  When  we  beheld  them  all  in  a  row,  like  a  regular  battery,  we 
simultaneously  conceived  an  idea,  the  magnitude  of  which  struck  us  dumb 
for  a  moment. 

Our  first  intention  was  to  load  and  fire  a  single  gun.  How  feeble  and 
insignificant  was  such  a  plan  compared  to  that  which  now  sent  the  light 
dancing  into  our  eyes  ! 

"  What  could  we  have  been  thinking  of?  "  cried  Jack  Harris.  "  We  '11 
give  'em  a  broadside,  to  be  sure,  if  we  die  for  it !  " 

We  turned  to  with  a  will,  and  before  nightfall  had  nearly  half  the  battery 
overhauled  and  ready  for  service.  To  keep  the  artillery  dry  we  stuffed  wads 
of  loose  hemp  into  the  muzzles,  and  fitted  wooden  pegs  to  the  touch-holes. 

At  recess  the  next  noon  the  Centipedes  met  in  a  corner  of  the  school 
yard  to  talk  over  the  proposed  lark.  The  original  projectors,  though  they 
would  have  liked  to  keep  the  thing  secret,  were  obliged  to  make  a  club  mat 
ter  of  it,  inasmuch  as  funds  were  required  for  ammunition.  There  had  been 
no  recent  drain  on  the  treasury,  and  the  society  could  well  afford  to  spend  a 
few  dollars  in  so  notable  an  undertaking. 

It  was  unanimously  agreed  that  the  plan  should  be  carried  out  in  the 
handsomest  manner,  and  a  subscription  to  that  end  was  taken  on  the  spot. 
Several  of  the  Centipedes  had  n't  a  cent,  excepting  the  one  strung  around 
their  necks  ;  others,  however,  were  richer.  I  chanced  to  have  a  dollar,  and 
it  went  into  the  cap  quicker  than  lightning.  When  the  club,  in  view  of  my 
munificence,  voted  to  name  the  guns  Bailey's  Battery  I  was  prouder  than  I 
have  ever  been  since  over  anything. 

The  money  thus  raised,  added  to  that  already  in  the  treasury,  amounted  to 
nine  dollars,  —  a  fortune  in  those  days  ;  but  not  more  than  we  had  use  for. 
This  sum  was  divided  into  twelve  parts,  for  it  would  not  do  for  one  boy  to 
buy  all  the  powder,  nor  even  for  us  all  to  make  our  purchases  at  the  same 
place.  That  would  excite  suspicion  at  any  time,  particularly  at  a  period  so 
remote  from  the  Fourth  of  July. 

There  were  only  three  stores  in  town  licensed  to  sell  powder  ;  that  gave 
each  store  four  customers.  Not  to  run  the  slightest  risk  of  remark,  one  boy 
bought  'his  powder  on  Monday,  the  next  boy  on  Tuesday,  and  so  on  until 
the  requisite  quantity  was  in  our  possession.  This  we  put  into  a  keg  and 
carefully  hid  in  a  dry  spot  on  the  wharf. 

Our  next  step  was  to  finish  cleaning  the  guns,  which  occupied  two  after 
noons,  for  several  of  the  old  sogers  were  in  a  very  congested  state  indeed. 
Having  completed  the  task,  we  came  upon  a  difficulty.  To  set  off  the  bat 
tery  by  daylight  was  out  of  the  question  ;  it  must  be  done  at  night ;  it  must 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  573 

be  done  with  fuses,  for  no  doubt  the  neighbors  would  turn  out  after  the 
first  two  or  three  shots,  and  it  would  not  pay  to  be  caught  in  the  vicinity. 

Who  knew  anything  about  fuses  ?  Who  could  arrange  it  so  the  guns 
would  go  off  one  after  the  other,  with  an  interval  of  a  minute  or  so  between  ? 

Theoretically  we  knew  that  a  minute-fuse  lasted  a  minute  ;  double  the 
quantity,  two  minutes  ;  but  practically  we  were  at  a  stand-still.  There  was 
but  one  person  who  could  help  us  in  this  extremity,  —  Sailor  Ben.  To  me 
was  assigned  the  duty  of  obtaining  what  information  I  could  from  the  ex- 
gunner,  it  being  left  to  my  discretion  whether  or  not  to  intrust  him  with 
our  secret. 

So  one  evening  I  dropped  into  the  cabin  and  artfully  turned  the  conversa 
tion  to  fuses  in  general,  and  then  to  particular  fuses,  but  without  getting 
much  out  of  the  old  boy,  who  was  busy  making  a  twine  hammock.  Finally, 
I  was  forced  to  divulge  the  whole  plot. 

The  Admiral  had  a  sailor's  love  for  a  joke,  and  entered  at  once  and  heart 
ily  into  our  scheme.  He  volunteered  to  prepare  the  fuses  himself,  and  I  left 
the  labor  in  his  hands,  having  bound  him  by  several  extraordinary  oaths  — 
such  as  "Hope-I-may-die  "  and  "  Shiver-my-timbers"  —  not  to  betray  us, 
come  what  would. 

This  was  Monday  evening.  On  Wednesday  the  fuses  were  ready.  That 
night  we  were  to  unmuzzle  Bailey's  Battery.  Mr.  Grimshaw  saw  that  some 
thing  was  wrong  somewhere,  for  we  were  restless  and  absent-minded  in  the 
classes,  and  the  best  of  us  came  to  grief  before  the  morning  session  was 
over.  When  Mr.  Grimshaw  announced  "  Guy  Fawkes  "  as  the  subject  for 
our  next  composition,  you  might  have  knocked  down  the  Mystic  Twelve 
with  a  feather. 

The  coincidence  was  certainly  curious,  but  when  a  man  has  committed,  or 
is  about  to  commit,  an  offence,  a  hundred  trifles,  which  would  pass  unno 
ticed  at  another  time,  seem  to  point  at  him  with  convicting  fingers.  No 
doubt  Guy  Fawkes  himself  received  many  a  start  after  he  had  got  his  wicked 
kegs  of  gunpowder  neatly  piled  up  under  the  House  of  Lords. 

Wednesday,  as  I  have  mentioned,  was  a  half-holiday,  and  the  Centipedes 
assembled  in  my  barn  to  decide  on  the  final  arrangements.  These  were  as 
simple  as  could  be.  As  the  fuses  were  connected,  it  needed  but  one  person 
to  fire  the  train.  Hereupon  arose  a  discussion  as  to  who  was  the  proper 
person.  Some  argued  that  I  ought  to  apply  the  match,  the  battery  being 
christened  after  me,  and  the  main  idea,  moreover,  being  mine.  Others  ad 
vocated  the  claim  of  Phil  Adams  as  the  oldest  boy.  At  last  we  drew  lots  for 
the  post  of  honor. 

Twelve  slips  of  folded  paper,  upon  one  of  which  was  written  "  Thou  art 
the  man,"  were  placed  in  a  quart  measure,  and  thoroughly  shaken  ;  then 
each  member  stepped  up  and  lifted  out  his  destiny.  At  a  given  signal  we 
opened  our  billets.  "  Thou  art  the  man,"  said  the  slip  of  paper  trembling  in 
my  fingers.  The  sweets  and  anxieties  of  a  leader  were  mine  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon. 

Directly  after  twilight  set  in  Phil  Adams  stole  down  to  the  wharf  and 


574  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [September, 

fixed  the  fuses  to  the  guns,  laying  a  train  of  powder  from  the  principal  fuse 
to  the  fence,  through  a  chink  of  which  I  was  to  drop  the  match  at  mid 
night. 

At  ten  o'clock  Rivermouth  goes  to  bed. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Rivermouth  is  as  quiet  as  a  country  churchyard. 

At  twelve  o'clock  there  is  nothing  left  with  which  to  compare  the  stillness 
that  broods  over  the  little  seaport. 

In  the  midst  of  this  stillness  I  arose  and  glided  out  of  the  house  like  a 
phantom  bent  on  an  evil  errand  ;  like  a  phantom  I  flitted  through  the  silent 
street,  hardly  drawing  breath  until  I  knelt  down  beside  the  fence  at  the 
appointed  place. 

Pausing  a  moment  for  my  heart  to  stop  thumping,  I  lighted  the  match 
and  shielded  it  with  both  hands  until  it  was  well  under  way,  and  then 
dropped  the  blazing  splinter  on  the  slender  thread  of  gunpowder. 

A  noiseless  flash  instantly  followed,  and  all  was  dark  again.  I  peeped 
through  the  crevice  in  the  fence,  and  saw  the  main  fuse  spitting  out  sparks 
like  a  conjurer.  Assured  that  the  train  had  not  failed,  I  took  to  my  heels, 
fearful  lest  the  fuse  might  burn  more  rapidly  than  we  calculated,  and  cause 
an  explosion  before  I  could  get  home.  This,  luckily,  did  not  happen. 
There  's  a  special  Providence  that  watches  over  idiots,  drunken  men,  and 
boys. 

I  dodged  the  ceremony  of  undressing  by  plunging  into  bed,  jacket,  boots, 
and  all.  I  am  not  sure  I  took  off  my  cap  ;  but  I  know  that  I  had  hardly 
pulled  the  coverlid  over  me,  when  "  BOOM  !  "  sounded  the  first  gun  of  Bai 
ley's  Battery. 

I  lay  as  still  as  a  mouse.  In  less  than  two  minutes  there  was  another 
burst  of  thunder,  and  then  another.  The  third  gun  was  a  tremendous  fel 
low  and  fairly  shook  the  house. 

The  town  was  waking  up.  Windows  were  thrown  open  here  and  there 
and  people  called  to  each  other  across  the  streets  asking  what  that  firing 
was  for. 

"  BOOM  !  "  went  gun  number  four. 

I  sprung  out  of  bed  and  tore  off  my  jacket,  for  I  heard  the  Captain  feeling 
his  way  along  the  wall  to  my  chamber.  I  was  half  undressed  by  the  time 
he  found  the  knob  of  the  door. 

"  I  say,  sir,"  I  cried,  "  do  you  hear  those  guns  ?  " 

"Not  being  deaf,  I  do,"  said  the  Captain,  a  little  tartly, —any  reflection 
on  his  hearing  always  nettled  him ;  "  but  what  on  earth  they  are  for  I  can't 
conceive.  You  had  better  get  up  and  dress  yourself." 

"  I  'm  nearly  dressed,  sir." 

"  BOOM  !  BOOM  !  "  —  two  of  the  guns  had  gone  off  together. 

The  door  of  Miss  Abigail's  bedroom  opened  hastily,  and  that  pink  of 
maidenly  propriety  stepped  out  into  the  hall  in  her  night-gown,  —  the  only 
indecorous  thing  I  ever  knew  her  to  do.  She  held  a  lighted  candle  in  her 
hand  and  looked  like  a  very  aged  Lady  Macbeth. 

"  O  Dan'el,  this  is  dreadful !     What  do  you  suppose  it  means  ? " 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  575 

"  I  really  can't  suppose,"  said  the  Captain,  rubbing  his  ear ;  "  but  I  guess 
it 's  over  now." 

"  BOOM  !  "  said  Bailey's  Battery. 

Rivermouth  was  wide  awake  now,  and  half  the  male  population  were  in  the 
streets,  running  different  ways,  for  the  firing  seemed  to  proceed  from  oppo 
site  points  of  the  town.  Everybody  waylaid  everybody  else  with  questions  ; 
but  as  no  one  knew  what  was  the  occasion  of  the  tumult,  people  who  were 
not  usually  nervous  began  to  be  oppressed  by  the  mystery. 

Some  thought  the  town  was  being  bombarded ;  some  thought  the  world 
was  coming  to  an  end,  as  the  pious  and  ingenious  Mr.  Miller  had  predicted  it 
would ;  but  those  who  could  n't  form  any  theory  whatever  were  the  most 
perplexed. 

In  the  mean  while  Bailey's  Battery  bellowed  away  at  regular  intervals.  The 
greatest  confusion  reigned  everywhere  by  this  time.  People  with  lanterns 
rushed  hither  and  thither.  The  town-watch  had  turned  out  to  a  man,  and 
marched  off,  in  admirable  order,  in  the  wrong  direction.  Discovering  their 
mistake,  they  retraced  their  steps,  and  got  down  to  the  wharf  just  as  the 
last  cannon  belched  forth  its  lightning. 

A  dense  cloud  of  sulphurous  smoke  floated  over  Anchor  Lane,  obscuring 
the  starlight.  Two  or  three  hundred  people,  in  various  stages  of  excite 
ment,  crowded  about  the  upper  end  of  the  wharf,  not  liking  to  advance  far 
ther  until  they  were  satisfied  that  the  explosions  were  over.  A  board  was 
here  and  there  blown  from  the  fence,  and  through  the  openings  thus  afforded 
a  few  of  the  more  daring  spirits  at  length  ventured  to  crawl. 

The  cause  of  the  racket  soon  transpired.  A  suspicion  that  they  had  been 
sold  gradually  dawned  on  the  Rivermouthians.  Many  were  exceedingly  in 
dignant,  and  declared  that  no  penalty  was  severe  enough  for  those  concerned 
in  such  a  prank;  others  —  and  these  were  the  very  people  who  had  been 
terrified  nearly  out  of  their  wits  —  had  the  assurance  to  laugh,  saying  that 
they  knew  all  along  it  was  only  a  trick. 

The  town-watch  boldly  took  possession  of  the  ground,  and  the  crowd 
began  to  disperse.  Knots  of  gossips  lingered  here  and  there  near  the  place, 
indulging  in  vain  surmises  as  to  who  the  invisible  gunners  could  be. 

There  was  no  more  noise  that  night,  but  many  a  timid  person  lay  awake 
expecting  a  renewal  of  the  mysterious  cannonading.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant 
refused  to  go  to  bed  on  any  terms,  but  persisted  in  sitting  up  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  with  his  hat  and  mittens  on,  until  daybreak. 

I  thought  I  should  never  get  to  sleep.  The  moment  I  drifted  off  in  a 
doze  I  fell  to  laughing  and  woke  myself  up.  But  towards  morning  slumber 
overtook  me,  and  I  had  a  series  of  disagreeable  dreams,  in  one  of  which  I 
was  waited  upon  by  the  ghost  of  Silas  Trefethen  with  an  exorbitant  bill  for 
the  use  of  his  guns.  In  another,  I  was  dragged  before  a  court-martial  and 
sentenced  by  Sailor  Ben,  in  a  frizzled  wig  and  three-cornered  cocked  hat, 
to  be  shot  to  death  by  Bailey's  Battery,  —  a  sentence  which  Sailor  Ben  was 
about  to  execute  with  his  own  hand,  when  I  suddenly  opened  my  eyes  and 
found  the  sunshine  lying  pleasantly  across  my  face.  I  tell  you  I  was  glad ! 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


[September, 


That  unaccountable  fascination  which  leads  the  guilty  to  hover  about  the 
spot  where  his  crime  was  committed  drew  me  down  to  the  wharf  as  soon  as 
I  was  dressed.  Phil  Adams,  Jack  Harris,  and  others  of  the  conspirators 
were  already  there,  examining  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  curiosity  and  appre 
hension  the  havoc  accomplished  by  the  battery. 

The  fence  was  badly  shattered  and  the  ground  ploughed  up  for  several 
yards  round  the  place  where  the  guns  formerly  lay, — formerly  lay,  for 
now  they  were  scattered  every  which  way.  There  was  scarcely  a  gun 
that  had  n't  bursted.  Here  was  one  ripped  open  from  muzzle  to  breech, 
and  there  was  another  with  its  mouth  blown  into  the  shape  of  a  trumpet. 
Three  of  the  guns  had  disappeared  bodily,  but  on  looking  over  the  edge  of 
the  wharf  we  saw  them  standing  on  end  in  the  tide-mud.  They  had  popped 
overboard  in  their  excitement. 


"  I  tell  you  what,  fellows,"  whispered  Phil  Adams,  "  it  is  lucky  we  did  n't 
try  to  touch  'em  off  with  punk.  They  'd  have  blown  us  all  to  flinders." 

The  destruction  of  Bailey's  Battery  was  not,  unfortunately,  the  only  catas 
trophe.  A  fragment  of  one  of  the  cannon  had  carried  away  the  chimney  of 
Sailor  Ben's  cabin.  He  was  very  mad  at  first,  but  having  prepared  the  fuse 
himself  he  did  n't  dare  complain  openly. 

"  I  'd  have  taken  a  reef  in  the  blessed  stove-pipe,"  said  the  Admiral, 
gazing  ruefully  at  the  smashed  chimney,  "if  I  had  known  as  how  the  Flag 
ship  was  agoin'  to  be  under  fire." 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  577 

The  next  day  he  rigged  out  an  iron  funnel,  which,  being  in  sections,  could 
be  detached  and  taken  in  at  a  moment's  notice.  On  the  whole,  I  think  he 
inwardly  gloated  over  the  demolition  of  his  brick  chimney.  The  stove-pipe 
was  a  great  deal  more  ship-shape. 

The  town  was  not  so  easily  appeased.  The  selectmen  determined  to  make 
an  example  of  the  guilty  parties,  and  offered  a  reward  for  their  arrest,  hold 
ing  out  a  promise  of  pardon  to  any  one  of  the  offenders  who  would  furnish 
information  against  the  rest.  But  there  were  no  faint  hearts  among  the 
Centipedes.  Suspicion  rested  for  a  while  on  several  persons,  —  on  the  sol 
diers  at  the  fort ;  on  a  crazy  fellow,  known  about  town  as  "  Bottle-Nose  "  ; 
and  at  last  on  Sailor  Ben. 

"  Shiver  my  timbers  !  "  cries  that  deeply  injured  individual.  "  Do  you  sup 
pose,  sir,  as  I  have  lived  to  sixty  year,  an'  ain't  got  no  more  sense  than  to  go 
for  to  blaze  away  at  my  own  upper  riggin'  ?  It  does  n't  stand  to  reason." 

It  certainly  did  not  seem  probable  that  Mr.  Watson  would  maliciously 
knock  over  his  own  chimney,  and  Lawyer  Scratch,  who  had  the  case  in 
hand,  bowed  himself  out  of  the  Admiral's  cabin  convinced  that  the  right 
man  had  not  been  discovered. 

People  living  by  the  sea  are  always  more  or  less  superstitious.  Stories 
of  spectre  ships  and  mysterious  beacons,  that  lure  vessels  out  of  their  course 
and  wreck  them  on  unknown  reefs,  were  among  the  stock  legends  of  River- 
mouth  ;  and  not  a  few  people  in  the  town  were  ready  to  attribute  the  firing 
of  those  guns  to  some  supernatural  agency.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant  remem 
bered  that  when  he  was  a  boy  a  dim-looking  sort  of  schooner  hove  to  in  the 
offing  one  foggy  afternoon,  fired  off  a  single  gun  that  did  n't  make  any  re 
port,  and  then  crumbled  to  nothing,  spar,  mast,  and  hulk,  like  a  piece  of 
burnt  paper. 

The  authorities,  however,  were  of  the  opinion  that  human  hands  had 
something  to  do  with  the  explosions,  and  they  resorted  to  deep-laid  strate- 
gems  to  get  hold  of  the  said  hands.  One  of  their  traps  came  very  near 
catching  us.  They  artfully  caused  an  old  brass  field-piece  to  be  left  on  a 
wharf  near  the  scene  of  our  late  operations.  Nothing  in  the  world  but  the 
lack  of  money  to  buy  powder  saved  us  from  falling  into  the  clutches  of  the 
two  watchmen  who  lay  secreted  for  a  week  in  a  neighboring  sail-loft. 

It  was  many  a  day  before  the  midnight  bombardment  ceased  to  be  the 
town-talk.  The  trick  was  so  audacious  and  on  so  grand  a  scale  that  nobody 
thought  for  an  instant  of  connecting  us  lads  with  it.  Suspicion  at  length 
grew  weary  of  lighting  on  the  wrong  person,  and  as  conjecture  —  like  the 
physicians  in  the  epitaph  —  was  in  vain,  the  Rivermouthians  gave  up  the 
idea  of  finding  out  who  had  astonished  them. 

They  never  did  find  out,  and  never  will,  unless  they  read  this  veracious 
history.  If  the  selectmen  are  still  disposed  to  punish  the  malefactors,  I 
can  supply  Lawyer  Scratch  with  evidence  enough  to  convict  Pepper  Whit- 
comb,  Phil  Adams,  Charley  Marden,  and  the  other  honorable  members  of 
the  Centipede  Club.  But  really  I  don't  think  it  would  pay  now. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


578 


About  Humming-Birds. 


[September, 


ABOUT    HUMMING-BIRDS. 


ALL    the 
readers 
of  Our  Young 
Folks  must  re 
member  Mrs. 
Stowe's  char 
ming     sketch 
of    Hum    the 
Son    of    Buz, 
which  appear 
ed  in  its  first 
number.        It 
was  an  inter 
esting  account  of  the  peculiar  habits  of  a 
young   Ruby-throated   Humming-Bird,  for 
several  weeks  her  petted  companion.    Some 
novel  facts  in  regard  to  the  food  and  man 
ner  of  life  of  these  tiny  specimens  of  bird- 
kind  were  there  presented  with  a  freshness 
that  gave  them  great  interest.     We  shall 
endeavor  to  give  a  general  account  of  this 
wonderfully  beautiful   family   of  birds,  al 
though  we  cannot  hope  to  invest  it  with  an 
equal  charm. 

No  birds  are  so  universally  attractive  as 
the  Humming-Birds.  They  are  the  smallest 
in  size,  the  most  brilliantly  beautiful  in  plu 
mage,  and  have  the  most  numerous  varieties 
of  any  of  the  feathered  families.  They  are 
found  nowhere  except  in  the  New  World, 
but  here  they  may  be  met  with  anywhere, 
from  the  Falkland  Islands  of  South  Amer 
ica  almost  to  Greenland  in  North  America. 
They  are  most  abundant  in  the  warmer 
portions  of  the  continent,  especially  in  the 
West  India  Islands  and  in  Central  America  and  the  northern  states  of  South 
America. 

More  than  three  hundred  different  kinds  of  Humming-Birds  have  been 
already  described,  and  our  best-informed  naturalists  believe  that  not  less 
than  four  hundred  exist.  So  far  as  men  of  science  have  studied  their 
habits,  it  has  been  found  that  all  these  different  varieties  have  very  nearly 
the  same  peculiarities,  modified  chiefly  by  the  differences  in  their  places  of 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS 


VOL.  V 


OCTOBER,    1869. 


No.  X. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER   XVIII. 

A  FROG   HE   WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 


F  the  reader  supposes  that  I  lived  all  this  while 
in  Rivermouth  without  falling  a  victim  to  one 
or  more  of  the  young  ladies  attending  Miss 
Dorothy  Gibbs's  Female  Institute,  why,  then, 
all  I  have  to  say  is  the  reader  exhibits  his 
ignorance  of  human  nature. 

Miss  Gibbs's  seminary  was  located  within  a 
few  minutes'  walk  of  the  Temple  Grammar 
School,  and  numbered  about  thirty-five  pupils, 
the  majority  of  whom  boarded  at  the  Hall,  — 
Primrose  Hall,  as  Miss  Dorothy  prettily  called 
it.  The  Primroses,  as  we  called  them,  ranged 
from  seven  years  of  age  to  sweet  seventeen, 
and  a  prettier  group  of  sirens  never  got  to 
gether  even  in  Rivermouth,  for  Rivermouth, 
you  should  know,  is  famous  for  its  pretty  girls. 
There  were  tall  girls  and  short  girls,  rosy 
girls  and  pale  girls,  and  girls  as  brown  as  ber 
ries  ;  girls  like  Amazons,  slender  girls,  weird 
and  winning  like  Undine,  girls  with  black 
tresses,  girls  with  auburn  ringlets,  girls  with 
every  tinge  of  golden  hair.  To  behold  Miss 
Dorothy's  young  ladies  of  a  Sunday  morning  walking  to  church  two  by  two, 
the  smallest  toddling  at  the  end  of  the  procession  like  the  bobs  at  the  tail 
of  a  kite,  was  a  spectacle  to  fill  with  tender  emotion  the  least  susceptible 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

VOL.  v.  —  NO.  x.  45 


642  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [October, 

heart.  To  see  Miss  Dorothy  marching  grimly  at  the  head  of  her  light  in 
fantry,  was  to  feel  the  hopelessness  of  making  an  attack  on  any  part  of  the 
column. 

She  was  a  perfect  dragon  of  watchfulness.  The  most  unguarded  lifting  of 
an  eyelash  in  the  fluttering  battalion  was  sufficient  to  put  her  on  the  look 
out.  She  had  had  experiences  with  the  male  sex,  this  Miss  Dorothy  so 
prim  and  grim.  It  was  whispered  that  her  heart  was  a  tattered  album 
scrawled  over  with  love-lines,  but  that  she  had  shut  up  the  volume  long 
ago. 

There  was  a  tradition  that  she  had  been  crossed  in  love ;  but  it  was  the 
faintest  of  traditions.  A  gay  young  lieutenant  of  marines  had  flirted  with 
her  at  a  country  ball  (A.  D.  1811),  and  then  marched  carelessly  away  at  the 
head  of  his  company  to  the  shrill  music  of  the  fife,  without  so  much  as  a 
sigh  for  the  girl  he  left  behind  him.  The  years  rolled  on,  the  gallant  gay 
Lothario  —  which  was  n't  his  name  —  married,  became  a  father,  and  then  a 
grandfather ;  and  at  the  period  of  which  I  am  speaking  his  grandchild  was 
actually  one  of  Miss  Dorothy's  young  ladies.  So,  at  least,  ran  the  story. 

The  lieutenant  himself  was  dead  these  many  years  ;  but  Miss  Dorothy 
never  got  over  his  duplicity.  She  was  convinced  that  the  sole  aim  of  man 
kind  was  to  win  the  unguarded  affection  of  maidens,  and  then  march  off 
treacherously  with  flying  colors  to  the  heartless  music  of  the  drum  and  fife. 
To  shield  the  inmates  of  Primrose  Hall  from  the  bitter  influences  that  had 
blighted  her  own  early  affections  was  Miss  Dorothy's  mission  in  life. 

"No  wolves  prowling  about  my  lambs,  \iyou  please,"  said  Miss  Dorothy. 
"  I  will  not  allow  it." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  wo'rd.  I  don't  think  the  boy  lives  who  ever  set 
foot  within  the  limits  of  Primrose  Hall  while  the  seminary  was  under  her 
charge.  Perhaps  if  Miss  Dorothy  had  given  her  young  ladies  a  little  more 
liberty,  they  would  not  have  thought  it  "  such  fun  "  to  make  eyes  over  the 
white  lattice  fence  at  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Temple  Grammar  School. 
I  say  perhaps ;  for  it  is  one  thing  to  manage  thirty-five  young  ladies  and 
quite  another  thing  to  talk  about  it. 

But  all  Miss  Dorothy's  vigilance  could  not  prevent  the  young  folks  from 
meeting  in  the  town  now  and  then,  nor  could  her  utmost  ingenuity  inter 
rupt  postal  arrangements.  There  was  no  end  of  notes  passing  between  the 
students  and  the  Primroses.  Notes  tied  to  the  heads  of  arrows  were  shot 
into  dormitory  windows  ;  notes  were  tucked  under  fences,  and  hidden  in  the- 
tnmks  of  decayed  trees.  Every  thick  place  in  the  boxwood  hedge  that 
surrounded  the  seminary  was  a  possible  post-office. 

It  was  a  terrible  shock  to  Miss  Dorothy  the  day  she  unearthed  a  nest  of 
letters  in  one  of  the  huge  wooden  urns  surmounting  the  gateway  that  led  to 
her  dovecot  It  was  a  bitter  moment  to  Miss  Phoebe  and  Miss  Candace 
and  Miss  Hesba,  when  they  had  their  locks  of  hair  grimly  handed  back  to 
them  by  Miss  Gibbs  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  school.  Girls  whose  locks 
of  hair  had  run  the  blockade  in  safety  were  particularly  severe  on  the  offend 
ers.  But  it  did  n't  stop  other  notes  and  other  tresses,  and  I  would  like  to 
know  what  can  stop  them  while  the  earth  holds  together. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  643 

Now  when  I  first  came  to  Rivermouth  I  looked  upon  girls  as  rather  tame 
company  ;  I  had  n't  a  spark  of  sentiment  concerning  them  ;  but  seeing  my 
comrades  sending  and  receiving  mysterious  epistles,  wearing  bits  of  ribbon 
in  their  button-holes  and  leaving  packages  of  confectionery  (generally  lemon- 
drops)  in  the  hollow  trunks  of  trees,  —  why,  I  felt  that  this  was  the  proper 
thing  to  do.  I  resolved,  as  a  matter  of  duty,  to  fall  in  love  with  somebody, 
and  I  did  n't  care  in  the  least  who  it  was.  In  much  the  same  mood  that 
Don  Quixote  selected  the  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  for  his  lady-love,  I  singled 
out  one  of  Miss  Dorothy's  incomparable  young  ladies  for  mine. 

I  debated  a  long  while  whether  I  should  not  select  two,  but  at  last  set 
tled  down  on  one,  —  a  pale  little  girl  with  blue  eyes,  named  Alice.  I  shall 
not  make  a  long  story  of  this,  for  Alice  made  short  work  of  me.  She  was 
secretly  in  love  with  Pepper  Whitcomb.  This  occasioned  a  temporary  cool 
ness  between  Pepper  and  myself. 

Not  disheartened,  however,  I  placed  Laura  Rice  —  I  believe  it  was  Laura 
Rice  —  in  the  vacant  niche.  The  new  idol  was  more  cruel  than  the  old. 
The  former  frankly  sent  me  to  the  right  about,  but  the  latter  was  a  deceitful 
lot.  She  wore  my  nosegay  in  her  dress  at  the  evening  service  (the  Prim 
roses  were  marched  to  church  three  times  every  Sunday),  she  penned  me  the 
daintiest  of  notes,  she  sent  me  the  glossiest  of  ringlets  (cut,  as  I  afterwards 
found  out,  from  the  stupid  head  of  Miss  Gibbs's  chamber-maid),  and  at  the 
same  time  was  holding  me  and  my  pony  up  to  ridicule  in  a  series  of  letters 
written  to  Jack  Harris.  It  was  Harris  himself  who  kindly  opened  my  eyes. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Bailey,"  said  that  young  gentleman,  "  Laura  is  an  old 
veteran,  and  carries  too  many  guns  for  a  youngster.  She  can't  resist  a  flirta 
tion  ;  I  believe  she  'd  flirt  with  an  infant  in  arms.  There  's  hardly  a  fellow 
in  the  school  that  has  n't  worn  her  colors  and  some  of  her  hair.  She  does  n't 
give  out  any  more  of  her  own  hair  now.  It 's  been  pretty  well  used  up. 
The  demand  was  greater  than  the  supply,  you  see.  It 's  all  very  well  to 
correspond  with  Laura,  but  as  to  looking  for  anything  serious  from  her,  the 
knowing  ones  don't.  Hope  I  have  n't  hurt  your  feelings,  old  boy,"  (that  was 
a  soothing  stroke  of  flattery  to  call  me  "  old  boy,")  "  but  't  was  my  duty  as  a 
friend  and  a  Centipede  to  let  you  know  who  you  were  dealing  with." 

Such  was  the  advice  given  me  by  that  time-stricken,  care-worn,  and  embit 
tered  man  of  the  world,  who  was  sixteen  years  old  if  he  was  a  day. 

I  dropped  Laura.  In  the  course  of  the  next  twelve  months  I  had  perhaps 
three  or  four  similar  experiences,  and  the  conclusion  was  forced  upon  me 
that  I  was  not  a  boy  likely  to  distinguish  myself  in  this  branch  of  business. 

I  fought  shy  of  Primrose  Hall  from  that  moment.  Smiles  were  smiled 
over  the  boxwood  hedge,  and  little  hands  were  occasionally  kissed  to  me  ; 
but  I  only  winked  my  eye  patronizingly,  and  passed  on.  I  never  renewed 
tender  relations  with  Miss  Gibbs's  young  ladies.  All  this  occurred  during 
my  first  year  and  a  half  at  Rivermouth. 

Between  my  studies  at  school,  my  out-door  recreations,  and  the  hurts 
my  vanity  received,  I  managed  to  escape  for  the  time  being  any  very  serious 
attack  of  that  love  fever  which,  like  the  measles,  fs  almost  certain  to  seize 


644  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [October, 

upon  a  boy  sooner  or  later.  I  was  not  to  be  an  exception.  I  was  merely 
biding  my  time.  The  incidents  I  have  now  to  relate  took  place  shortly  after 
the  events  described  in  the  last  chapter. 

In  a  life  so  tranquil  and  circumscribed  as  ours  in  the  Nutter  House,  a 
visitor  was  a  novelty  of  no  little  importance.  The  whole  household  awoke 
from  its  quietude  one  morning  when  the  Captain  announced  that  a  young 
niece  of  his  from  New  York  was  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  us. 

The  blue-chintz  room,  into  which  a  ray  of  sun  was  never  allowed  to  pene 
trate,  was  thrown  open  and  dusted,  and  its  mouldy  air  made  sweet  with  a 
bouquet  of  pot-roses  placed  on  the  old-fashioned  bureau.  Kitty  was  busy 
all  the  forenoon  washing  off  the  sidewalk  and  sand-papering  the  great  brass 
knocker  on  our  front-door ;  and  Miss  Abigail  was  up  to  her  elbows  in  a 
pigeon-pie. 

I  felt  sure  it  was  for  no  ordinary  person  that  all  these  preparations  were 
in  progress  ;  and  I  was  right.  Miss  Nelly  Glentworth  was  no  ordinary 
person.  I  shall  never  believe  she  was.  There  may  have  been  lovelier 
women,  though  I  have  never  seen  them ;  there  may  have  been  more  bril 
liant  women,  though  it  has  not  been  my  fortune  to  meet  them  ;  but  that 
there  was  ever  a  more  charming  one  than  Nelly  Glentworth  is  a  proposition 
against  which  I  contend. 

I  don't  love  her  now.  I  don't  think  of  her  once  in  five  years  ;  and  yet  it 
would  give  me  a  turn  if  in  the  course  of  my  daily  walk  I  should  suddenly 
come  upon  her  eldest  boy.  I  may  say  that  her  eldest  boy  was  not  playing  a 
prominent  part  in  this  life  when  I  first  made  her  acquaintance. 

It  was  a  drizzling,  cheerless  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  summer  that  a 
hack  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  Nutter  House.  The  Captain  and  Miss 
Abigail  hastened  into  the  hall  on  hearing  the  carriage  stop.  In  a  moment 
more  Miss  Nelly  Glentworth  was  seated  in  our  sitting-room  undergoing  a 
critical  examination  at  the  hands  of  a  small  boy  who  lounged  uncomfortably 
on  a  settee  between  the  windows. 

The  small  boy  considered  himself  a  judge  of  girls,  and  he  rapidly  came  to 
the  following  conclusions :  That  Miss  Nelly  was  about  nineteen ;  that  she 
had  not  given  away  much  of  her  back  hair,  which  hung  in  two  massive  chest 
nut  braids  over  her  shoulders  ;  that  she  was  a  shade  too  pale  and  a  trifle  too 
tall ;  that  her  hands  were  nicely  shaped  and  her  feet  much  too  diminutive 
for  daily  use.  He  furthermore  observed  that  her  voice  was  musical,  and 
that  her  face  lighted  up  with  an  indescribable  brightness  when  she  smiled. 

On  the  whole,  the  small  boy  liked  her  well  enough  ;  and,  satisfied  that  she 
was  not  a  person  to  be  afraid  of,  but,  on  the  contrary,  one  who  might  be 
made  quite  agreeable,  he  departed  to  keep  an  appointment  with  his  friend 
Sir  Pepper  Whitcomb. 

But  the  next  morning  when  Miss  Glentworth  came  down  to  breakfast  in 
a  purple  dress,  her  face  as  fresh  as  one  of  the  moss-roses  on  the  bureau  up 
stairs,  and  her  laugh  as  contagious  as  the  merriment  of  a  robin,  the  small 
boy  experienced  a  strange  sensation,  and  mentally  compared  her  with  the 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  I  645 

loveliest  of  Miss  Gibbs's  young  ladies,  and  found  those  young  ladies  wanting 
in  the  balance. 

A  night's  rest  had  wrought  a  wonderful  change  in  Miss  Nelly.  The  pallor 
and  weariness  of  the  journey  had  passed  away.  I  looked  at  her  through  the 
toast-rack  and  thought  I  had  never  seen  anything  more  winning  than  her 
smile. 

After  breakfast  she  went  out  with  me  to  the  stable  to  see  Gypsy,  and  the 
three  of  us  became  friends  then  and  there.  Nelly  was  the  only  girl  that 
Gypsy  ever  took  the  slightest  notice  of. 

It  chanced  to  be  a  half-holiday,  and  a  base-ball  match  of  unusual  interest 
was  to  come  off  on  the  school  ground  that  afternoon ;  but,  somehow,  I  did 
n't  go.  I  hung  about  the  house  abstractedly.  The  Captain  went  up  town, 
and  Miss  Abigail  was  busy  in  the  kitchen  making  immortal  gingerbread.  I 
drifted  into  the  sitting-room,  and  had  our  guest  all  to  myself  for  I  don't 
know  how  many  hours.  It  was  twilight,  I  recollect,  when  the  Captain  re 
turned  with  letters  for  Miss  Nelly. 

Many  a  time  after  that  I  sat  with  her  through  the  dreamy  September  after 
noons.  If  I  had  played  base-ball  it  would  have  been  much  better  for  me. 

Those  first  days  of  Miss  Nelly's  visit  are  very  misty  in  my  remembrance. 
I  try  in  vain  to  remember  just  when  I  began  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  Wheth 
er  the  spell  worked  upon  me  gradually  or  fell  upon  me  all  at  once,  I  don't 
know.  I  only  know  that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  always  loved  her. 
Things  that  took  place  before  she  came  were  dim  to  me,  like  events  that  had 
occurred  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

Nelly  was  at  least  five  years  my  senior.  But  what  of  that  ?  Adam  is  the 
only  man  I  ever  heard  of  who  did  n't  in  early  youth  fall  in  love  with  a  woman 
older  than  himself,  and  I  am  convinced  that  he  would  have  done  so  if  he  had 
had  the  opportunity. 

I  wonder  if  girls  from  fifteen  to  twenty  are  aware  of  the  glamour  they  cast 
over  the  straggling,  awkward  boys  whom  they  regard  and  treat  as  mere  chil 
dren  ?  I  wonder,  now.  Young  women  are  so  keen  in  such  matters.  I  won 
der  if  Miss  Nelly  Glentworth  never  suspected  until  the  very  last  night  of 
her  visit  at  Rivermouth  that  I  was  over  ears  in  love  with  her  pretty  self,  and 
was  suffering  pangs  as  poignant  as  if  I  had  been  ten  feet  high  and  as  old  as 
Methuselah  ?  For,  indeed,  I  was  miserable  throughout  all  those  five  weeks. 
I  went  down  in  the  Latin  class  at  the  rate  of  three  boys  a  day.  Her  fresh 
young  eyes  came  between  me  and  my  book,  and  there  was  an  end  of  Virgil. 

"  O  love,  love,  love  ! 

Love  is  like  a  dizziness, 
It  winna  let  a  body 

Gang  aboot  his  business." 

I  was  wretched  away  from  her,  and  only  less  wretched  in  her  presence. 
The  especial  cause  of  my  woe  was  this  :  I  was  simply  a  little  boy  to  Miss 
Glentworth.  I  knew  it.  I  bewailed  it.  I  ground  my  teeth  and  wept  in 
secret  over  the  fact.  If  I  had  been  aught  else  in  her  eyes  would  she  have 
smoothed  my  hair  so  carelessly,  sending  an  electric  shock  through  my  whole 


646  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [October, 

system  ?  would  she  have  walked  with  me,  hand  in  hand,  for  hours  in  the 
old  garden  ?  and  once  when  I  lay  on  the  sofa,  my  head  aching  with  love  and 
mortification,  would  she  have  stooped  down  and  kissed  me  if  I  had  n't  been 
a  little  boy  ?  How  I  despised  little  boys  !  How  I  hated  one  particular  little 
boy,  —  too  little  to  be  loved  ! 

I  smile  over  this  very  grimly  even  now.  My  sorrow  was  genuine  and 
bitter.  It  is  a  great  mistake  on  the  part  of  elderly  ladies,  male  and  female, 
to  tell  a  child  that  he  is  seeing  his  happiest  days.  Don't  you  believe  a  word 
of  it,  my  little  friend.  The  burdens  of  childhood  are  as  hard  to  bear  as  the 
crosses  that  weigh  us  down  later  in  life,  while  the  happinesses  of  childhood 
are  tame  compared  with  those  of  our  maturer  years.  And  even  if  this  were 
not  so,  it  is  rank  cruelty  to  throw  shadows  over  the  young  heart  by  croak 
ing,  "  Be  merry,  for  to-morrow  you  die  !  " 

As  the  last  days  of  Nelly's  visit  drew  near,  I  fell  into  a  very  unhealthy 
state  of  mind.  To  have  her  so  frank  and  unconsciously  coquettish  with  me, 
was  a  daily  torment ;  to  be  looked  upon  and  treated  as  a  child  was  bitter 
almonds  ;  but  the  thought  of  losing  her  altogether  was  distraction. 

The  summer  was  at  an  end.  The  days  were  perceptibly  shorter,  and 
now  and  then  came  an  evening  when  it  was  chilly  enough  to  have  a  wood 
fire  in  our  sitting-room.  The  leaves  were  beginning  to  take  hectic  tints, 
and  the  wind  was  practising  the  minor  pathetic  notes  of  its  autumnal  dirge. 
Nature  and  myself  appeared  to  be  approaching  our  dissolution  simulta 
neously. 

One  evening,  the  evening  previous  to  the  day  set  for  Nelly's  departure,  — 
how  well  I  remember  it !  —  I  found  her  sitting  alone  by  the  wide  chimney- 
piece  looking  musingly  at  the  crackling  back-log.  There  were  no  candles 
in  the  room.  On  her  face  and  hands,  and  on  the  small  golden  cross  at  her 
throat,  fell  the  nickering  firelight,  —  that  ruddy,  mellow  firelight  in  which 
one's  grandmother  would  look  poetical. 

I  drew  a  low  stool  from  the  corner  and  placed  it  by  the  side  of  her  chair. 
She  reached  out  her  hand  to  me,  as  was  her  pretty  fashion,  and  so  we  sat 
for  several  moments  silently  in  the  changing  glow  of  the  burning  logs.  At 
length  I  moved*  back  the  stool  so  that  I  could  see  her  face  in  profile  without 
being  seen  by  her.  I  lost  her  hand  by  this  movement,  but  I  could  n't  have 
spoken  with  the  listless  touch  of  her  fingers  on  mine.  After  two  or  three 
attempts  I  said  "  Nelly  "  a  good  deal  louder  than  I  intended. 

Perhaps  the  effort  it  cost  me  was  evident  in  my  voice.  She  raised  herself 
quickly  in  the  chair  and  half  turned  towards  me. 

"Well,  Tom?" 

"  I  —  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going  away." 

"  So  am  I.     I  have  enjoyed  every  hour  of  my  visit." 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  ever  come  back  here  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Nelly,  and  her  eyes  wandered  off  into  the  fitful  firelight. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  forget  us  all  very  quickly." 

"Indeed  I  shall  not.  I  shall  always  have  the  pleasantest  memories  of 
Rivermouth." 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  647 

Here  the  conversation  died  a  natural  death.  Nelly  sank  into  a  sort  of 
dream,  and  I  meditated.  Fearing  every  moment  to  be  interrupted  by  some 
member  of  the  family,  I  nerved  myself  to  make  a  bold  dash. 

"  Nelly." 

"Well." 

"  Do  you  —  "     I  hesitated. 

"  Do  I  what  ?  " 

"  Love  any  one  very  much  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  do,"  said  Nelly,  scattering  her  revery  with  a  merry 
laugh.  "  I  love  Uncle  Nutter,  and  Aunt  Nutter,  and  you  —  and  Towser." 

Towser,  our  new  dog !  I  could  n't  stand  that.  I  pushed  back  the  stool 
impatiently  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  • 

"  That 's  not  what  I  mean,"  I  said  angrily. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  love  any  one  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  The  idea  of  it !  "  cried  Nelly,  laughing. 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  !  " 

"  Must,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  must,  Nelly." 

She  had  risen  from  the  chair  with  an  amused,  perplexed  look  in  her  eyes. 
I  held  her  an  instant  by  the  dress. 

"  Please  tell  me,  Nelly." 

"  O  you  silly  boy  !  "  cried  Nelly.  Then  she  rumpled  my  hair  all  over  my 
forehead  and  ran  laughing  out  of  the  room. 

Suppose  Cinderella  had  rumpled  the  Prince's  hair  all  over  his  forehead, 
how  would  he  have  liked  it  ?  Suppose  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  when  the  king's 
son  with  a  kiss  set  her  and  all  the  old  clocks  agoing  in  the  spell-bound  cas 
tle,  —  suppose,  I  say,  the  young  minx  had  looked  up  and  coolly  laughed  in 
his  eye,  I  guess  the  king's  son  would  n't  have  been  greatly  pleased. 

I  hesitated  a  second  or  two,  and  then  rushed  after  Nelly  just  in  time  to 
run  against  Miss  Abigail,  who  entered  the  room  with  a  couple  of  lighted 
candles. 

"  Goodness  gracious,  Tom ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Abigail,  "  are  you  pos 
sessed  ?  " 

I  left  her  scraping  the  warm  spermaceti  from  one  of  her  thumbs. 

Nelly  was  in  the  kitchen  talking  quite  unconcernedly  with  Kitty  Collins. 
There  she  remained  until  supper-time.  Supper  over,  we  all  adjourned  to  the 
sitting-room.  I  planned  and  plotted,  but  could  manage  in  no  way  to  get 
Nelly  alone.  She  and  the  Captain  played  cribbage  all  the  evening. 

The  next  morning  my  lady  did  not  make  her  appearance  until  we  were 
seated  at  the  breakfast-table.  I  had  got  up  at  daylight  myself.  Immediately 
after  breakfast  the  carriage  arrived  to  take  her  to  the  railway  station.  A 
gentleman  stepped  from  this  carriage,  and  greatly  to  my  surprise  was  warmly 
welcomed  by  the  Captain  and  Miss  Abigail,  and  by  Miss  Nelly  herself,  who 
seemed  unnecessarily  glad  to  see  him.  From  the  hasty  conversation  that 
followed  I  learned  that  the  gentleman  had  come  somewhat  unexpectedly  to 


648  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [October, 

conduct  Miss  Nelly  to  Boston.  But  how  did  he  know  that  she  was  to  leave 
that  morning  ?  Nelly  bade  farewell  to  the  Captain  and  Miss  Abigail,  made 
a  little  rush  and  kissed  me  on  the  nose,  and  was  gone. 

As  the  wheels  of  the  hack  rolled  up  the  street  and  over  my  finer  feelings, 
I  turned  to  the  Captain. 

"  Who  was  that  gentleman,  sir  ?  " 

"That  was  Mr.  Waldron." 

"  A  relation  of  yours,  sir  ?  "  I  asked,  craftily. 

"  No  relation  of  mine,  —  a  relation  of  Nelly's,"  said  the  Captain,  smiling. 

"  A  cousin  ?  "  I  suggested,  feeling  a  strange  hatred  spring  up  in  my  bosom 
for  the  unknown. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  might  call  him  a  cousin  for  the  present.  He's 
going  to  marry  little  Nelly  next  summer." 

In  one  of  Peter  Parley's  valuable  historical  works  is  a  description  of  an 
earthquake  at  Lisbon.  "  At  the  first  shock  the  inhabitants  rushed  into  the 
streets  ;  the  earth  yawned  at  their  feet  and  the  houses  tottered  and  fell  on 
every  side."  I  staggered  past  the  Captain  into  the  street ;  a  giddiness  came 
over  me  ;  the  earth  yawned  at  my  feet,  and  the  houses  threatened  to  fall  in 
on  every  side  of  me.  How  distinctly  I  remember  that  momentary  sense  of 
confusion  when  everything  in  the  world  seemed  toppling  over  into  ruins. 

As  I  have  remarked,  my  love  for  Nelly  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  I  had  not 
thought  of  her  for  years  until  I  sat  down  to  write  this  chapter,  and  yet,  now 
that  all  is  said  and  done,  I  should  n't  care  particularly  to  come  across  Mrs. 
Waldron's  eldest  boy  in  my  afternoon's  walk.  He  must  be  fourteen  or  fifteen 
years  old  by  this  time,  —  the  young  villain  ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

I   BECOME  A  BLIGHTED  BEING. 

WHEN  a  young  boy  gets  to  be  an  old  boy,  when  the- hair  is  growing  rather 
thin  on  the  top  of  the  old  boy's  head,  and  he  has  been  tamed  sufficiently  to 
take  a  sort  of  chastened  pleasure  in  allowing  the  baby  to  play  with  his  watch- 
seals,  —  when,  I  say,  an  old  boy  has  reached  this  stage  in  the  journey  of 
life,  he  is 'sometimes  apt  to  indulge  in  sportive  remarks  concerning  his  first 
love.  ' 

Now,  though  I  bless  my  stars  that  it  was  n't  in  my  power  to  marry  Miss 
Nelly,  I  am  not  going  to  deny  my  boyish  regard  for  her  nor  laugh  at  it.  As 
long  as  it  lasted  it  was  a  very  sincere  and  unselfish  love,  and  rendered  me 
proportionately  wretched.  I  say  as  long  as  it  lasted,  for  one's  first  love 
does  n't  last  forever. 

I  am  ready,  however,  to  laugh  at  the  amusing  figure  I  cut  after  I  had 
really  ceased  to  have  any  deep  feeling  in  the  matter.  It  was  then  I  took  it 
into  my  head  to  be  a  Blighted  Being.  This  was  about  two  weeks  after  the 
spectral  appearance  of  Mr.  Waldron. 

For  a  boy  of  a  naturally  vivacious  disposition  the  part  of  a  blighted  being 


1 869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  649 

presented  difficulties.  I  had  an  excellent  appetite,  I  liked  society,  I  liked 
out-of-door  sports,  I  was  fond  of  handsome  clothes.  Now  all  these  things 
were -incompatible  with  the  doleful  character  I  was  to  assume,  and  I  pro 
ceeded  to  cast  them  from  me.  I  neglected  my  hair.  I  avoided  my  play 
mates.  I  frowned  abstractedly.  I  did  n't  eat  as  much  as  was  good  for  me. 
I  took  lonely  walks.  I  brooded  in  solitude.  I  not  only  committed  to  mem 
ory  the  more  turgid  poems  of  the  late  Lord  Byron,  —  "  Fare  thee  well,  and 
if  forever,"  &c.,  — but  I  became  a  despondent  poet  on  my  own  account,  and 
composed  a  string  of  "  Stanzas  to  One  who  will  understand  them."  I  think 
I  was  a  trifle  too  hopeful  on  that  point ;  for  I  came  across  the  verses  sev 
eral  years  afterwards,  and  was  quite  unable  to  understand  them  myself. 

It  was  a  great  comfort  to  be  so  perfectly  miserable  and  yet  not  suffer  any. 
I  used  to  look  in  the  glass  and  gloat  over  the  amount  and  variety  of  mourn 
ful  expression  I  could  throw  into  my  features.  If  I  caught  myself  smiling 
at  anything,  I  cut  the  smile  short  with  a  sigh.  The  oddest  thing  about  all 
this  is,  I  never  once  suspected  that  I  was  not  unhappy.  No  one,  not  even 
Pepper  Whitcomb,  was  more  deceived  than  I. 

Among  the  minor  pleasures  of  being  blighted  were  the  interest  and  per 
plexity  I  excited  in  the  simple  souls  that  were  thrown  in  daily  contact  with 
me.  Pepper  especially.  I  nearly  drove  hirn  into  a  corresponding  state  of 
mind. 

I  had  from  time  to  time  given  Pepper  slight  but  impressive  hints  of  my 
admiration  for  Some  One  (this  was  in  the  early  part  of  Miss  Glentworth's 
visit) ;  I  had  also  led  him  to  infer  that  my  admiration  was  not  altogether  in 
vain.  He  was  therefore  unable  to  explain  the  cause  of  my  strange  behavior, 
for  I  had  carefully  refrained  from  mentioning  to  Pepper  the  fact  that  Some 
One  had  turned  out  to  be  Another's  ! 

I  treated  Pepper  shabbily.  I  could  n't  resist  playing  on  his  tenderer  feel 
ings.  He  was  a  boy  bubbling  over  with  sympathy  for  any  one  in  any  kind 
of  trouble.  Our  intimacy  since  Binny  Wallace's  death  had  been  uninter 
rupted  ;  but  now  I  moved  in  a  sphere  apart,  not  to  be  profaned  by  the  step 
of  an  outsider. 

I  no  longer  joined  the  boys  on  the  play-ground  at  recess.  I  stayed  at 
my  desk  reading  some  lugubrious  volume, — usually  "The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho,"  by  the  amiable  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  A  translation  of  "  The  Sorrows  of 
Werter  "  fell  into  my  hands  at  this  period,  and  if  I  could  have  committed 
suicide  without  killing  myself,  I  should  certainly  have  done  so. 

On  half-holidays,  instead  of  fraternizing  with  Pepper  and  the  rest  of  our 
clique,  I  would  wander  off  alone  to  Grave  Point. 

Grave  Point  —  the  place  where  Binny  Wallace's  body  came  ashore  —  was 
a  narrow  strip  of  land  running  out  into  the  river.  A  line  of  Lombardy  pop 
lars,  stiff  and  severe,  like  a  row  of  grenadiers,  mounted  guard  on  the  water 
side.  On  the  extreme  end  of  the  peninsula  was  an  old  disused  graveyard, 
tenanted  principally  by  the  early  settlers  who  had  been  scalped  by  the  In 
dians.  In  a  remote  corner  of  the  cemetery,  set  apart  from  the  other  mounds, 
was  the  grave  of  a  woman  who  had  been  hanged  in  the  old  colonial  times 


650  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [October, 

for  the  murder  of  her  infant.  Goodwife  Polly  Haines  had  denied  the  crime 
to  the  last,  and  after  her  death  there  had  arisen  strong  doubts  as  to  her 
actual  guilt.  It  was  a  belief  current  among  the  lads  of  the  town,  that  if  you 
went  to  this  grave  at  nightfall  on  the  loth  of  November,  —  the  anniversary 
of  her  execution,  —  and  asked,  "  For  what  did  the  magistrates  hang  you  ?  " 
a  voice  would  reply,  "  Nothing  !  " 

Many  a  Rivermouth  boy  has  tremblingly  put  this  question  in  the  dark, 
and,  sure  enough,  Polly  Haines  invariably  answered  nothing ! 

A  low  red  brick  wall,  broken  down  in  many  places  and  frosted  over  with 
silvery  moss,  surrounded  this  burial-ground  of  our  Pilgrim  Fathers  and  their 
immediate  descendants.  The  latest  date  on  any  of  the  headstones  was  1780. 
A  crop  of  very  funny  epitaphs  sprung  up  here  and  there  among  the  over 
grown  thistles  and  burdocks,  and  almost  every  tablet  had  a  death's-head 
with  cross-bones  engraved  upon  it,  or  else  a  puffy  round  face  with  a  pair  of 
wings  stretching  out  from  the  ears,  like  this  :  — 


These  mortuary  emblems  furnished  me  with  congenial  food  for  reflection. 
I  used  to  lie  in  the  long  grass,  and  speculate  on  the  advantages  and  disad 
vantages  of  being  a  cherub. 

I  forget  what  I  thought  the  advantages  were,  but  I  remember  distinctly 
of  getting  into  an  inextricable  tangle  on  two  points :  How  could  a  cherub, 
being  all  head  and  wings,  manage  to  sit  down  when  he  was  tired  ?  To  have 
to  sit  down  on  the  back  of  his  head  struck  me  as  an  awkward  alternative. 
Again :  Where  did  a  cherub  carry  those  necessary  articles  (such  as  jack- 
knives,  marbles,  and  pieces  of  twine)  which  boys  in  an  earthly  state  of 
existence  usually  stow  away  in  their  trousers-pockets  ? 

These  were  knotty  questions,  and  I  was  never  able  to  dispose  of  them 
satisfactorily. 

Meanwhile  Pepper  Whitcomb  would  scour  the  whole  town  in  search  of 
me.  He  finally  discovered  my  retreat,  one  afternoon,  and  dropped  in  on  me 
abruptly  while  I  was  deep  in  the  cherub  problem. 

"  Look  here,  Tom  Bailey ! "  said  Pepper,  shying  a  piece  of  clam-shell 
indignantly  at  the  Hie  jacet  on  a  neighboring  gravestone,  "you  are  just 
going  to  the  dogs  !  Can't  you  tell  a  fellow  what  in  thunder  ails  you,  instead 
of  prowling  round  ^mong  the  tombs  like  a  jolly  old  vampire  ?  " 

"  Pepper,"  I  replied,  solemnly,  "  don't  ask  me.  All  is  not  well  here  "  — 
touching  my  breast  mysteriously.  If  I  had  touched  my  head  instead,  I 
shouM  have  been  nearer  the  mark. 

Pepper  stared  at  me. 

"  Earthly  happiness,"  I  continued,  "  is  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  You  will 
never  be  happy,  Pepper,  until  you  are  a  cherub." 

Pepper,  by  the  by,  would  have  made  an  excellent  cherub,  he  was  so  chubby. 


1869.] 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


Having  delivered  myself  of  these  gloomy  remarks,  I  arose  languidly  from 
the  grass  and  moved  away,  leaving  Pepper  staring  after  me  in  mute  aston 
ishment.  I  was  Hamlet  and  Werter  and  the  late  Lord  Byron  all  in  one. 

You  will  ask  what  my  purpose  was  in  cultivating  this  factitious  despond 
ency.  None  whatever.  Blighted  beings  never  have  any  purpose  in  life 
excepting  to  be  as  blighted  as  possible. 


Of  course  my  present  line  of  business  could  not  long  escape  the  eye  of 
Captain  Nutter.  I  don't  know  if  the  Captain  suspected  my  attachment  for 
Nelly.  He  never  alluded  to  it ;  but  he  watched  me.  Miss  Abigail  watched 
me  ;  Kitty  Collins  watched,  and  Sailor  Ben  watched  me. 

"  I  can't  make  out  his  signals,''  I  overheard  the  Admiral  remark  to  my 
grandfather  one  day.  "  I  hope  he  ain't  got  no  kind  of  sickness  aboard." 

There  was  something  singularly  agreeable  in  being  an  object  of  so  great 
interest.  Sometimes  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  preserve  my  dejected  aspect,  it 
was  so  pleasant  to  be  miserable.  I  incline  to  the  opinion  that  people  who 
are  melancholy  without  any  particular  reason,  such  as  poets,  artists,  and 
young  musicians  with  long  hair,  have  rather  an  enviable  time  of  it.  In  a 
quiet  way  I  never  enjoyed  myself  better  in  my  life  than  when  I  was  a 
Blighted  Being. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


652  Summer 's  Done.  [October, 


SUMMER'S    DONE. 

A  LONG  the  wayside  and  up  the  hills 
•£*•     The  golden-rod  flames  in  the  sun; 
The  blue-eyed  gentian  nods  good  by 
To  the  sad  little  brooks  that  run; 

And  so  Summer  's  done,  said  I,  • 

Summer  's  done  ! 

In  yellowing  woods  the  chestnut  drops  ; 

The  squirrel  gets  galore, 
Though  bright-eyed  lads  and  little  maids 

Rob  him  of  half  his  store  ; 
And  so  Summer  's  o'er,  said  I, 
Summer  's  o'er  ! 

The  maple  in  the  swamp  begins 

To  flaunt  in  gold  and  red, 
And  in  the  elm  the  fire-bird's  nest 

Swings  empty  overhead ; 
And  so  Summer  's  dead,  said  I, 
Summer 's  dead ! 

The  barberry  hangs  her  jewels  out, 
.  And  guards  them  with  a  thorn  ; 
The  merry  farmer  boys  cut  down 

The  poor  old  dried-up  corn ; 
And  so  Summer  's  gone,  said  I, 
Summer 's  gone ! 

i 
The  swallows  and  the  bobolinks 

Are  gone  this  many  a  day, 
But  in  the  mornings  still  you  hear 

The  scolding,  swaggering  jay  ! 
And  so  Summer 's  away,  said  I, 

Summer  's  away  !  9 

A  wonderful  glory  fills  the  air, 

And  big  and  bright  is  the  sun  ; 
A  loving  hand  for  the  whole  brown  earth 

A  garment  of  beauty  has  spun ; 
But  for  all  that,  Summer  's  done,  said  I, 
Summer 's  done ! 

Lily  Nelson. 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


NOVEMBER,    1869. 


No.  XL 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER   XX. 

IN  WHICH  I  PROVE  MYSELF  TO  BE  THE  GRANDSON  OF  MY  GRANDFATHER. 

T  was  not  possible  for  a  boy  of  my  tempera 
ment  to  be  a  blighted  being  longer  than  three 
consecutive  weeks. 

I  was  gradually  emerging  from  my  self-im 
posed  cloud  when  events  transpired  that 
greatly  assisted  in  restoring  me  to  a  more 
natural  frame  of  mind.  I  awoke  from  an  im 
aginary  trouble  to  face  a  real  one. 

I  suppose  you  don't  know  what  a  financial 
crisis  is  ?  I  will  give  you  an  illustration.  You 
are  deeply  in  debt  —  say  to  the  amount  of  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  —  to  the  little  knickknack 
shop  round  the  corner,  where  they  sell  picture- 
papers,  spruce-gum,  needles,  and  Malaga  rai 
sins.  A  boy  owes  you  a  quarter  of  a  dollar, 
which  he  promises  to  pay  at  a  certain  time. 
You  are  depending  on  this  quarter  to  settle 
accounts  with  the  small  shop-keeper.  The 
time  arrives  —  and  the  quarter  does  n't.  That 
's  a  financial  crisis,  in  one  sense,  —  in  twenty- 
five  senses,  if  I  may  say  so. 

When  this  same  thing  happens,  on  a  grander 
scale,  in  the  mercantile  world,  it  produces  what  is  called  a  panic.  One 
man's  inability  to  pay  his  debts  ruins  another  man,  who,  in  turn,  ruins  some 
one  else,  and  so  on,  until  failure  after  failure  makes  even  the  richest  capital- 
Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's 

Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   V.  —  NO.   XI.  50 


714  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [November, 

ist  tremble.     Public  confidence  is  suspended,  and  the  smaller  fry  of  mer 
chants  are  knocked  over  like  tenpins. 

These  commercial  panics  occur  periodically,  after  the  fashion  of  comets 
and  earthquakes  and  other  disagreeable  things.  Such  a  panic  took  place  in 
New*  Orleans  in  the  year  18 — ,  and  my  father's  banking-house  went  to  pieces 
in  the  crash. 

Of  a  comparatively  large  fortune,  nothing  remained  after  paying  his  debts 
excepting  a  few  thousand  dollars,  with  which  he  proposed  to  return  North 
and  embark  in  some  less  hazardous  enterprise.  In  the  mean  time  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  stay  in  New  Orleans  to  wind  up  the  business. 

My  grandfather  was  in  some  way  involved  in  this  failure,  and  lost,  I  fancy, 
a  considerable  sum  of  money ;  but  he  never  talked  much  on  the  subject. 
He  was  an  unflinching  believer  in  the  spilt-milk  proverb. 

"  It  can't  be  gathered  up,"  he  would  say,  "  and  it 's  no  use  crying  over 
it.  Pitch  into  the  cow  and  get  some  more  milk,  is  my  motto." 

The  suspension  of  the  banking-house  was  bad  enough,  but  there  was  an 
attending  circumstance  that  gave  us,  at  Rivermouth,  a  great  deal  more 
anxiety.  The  cholera,  which  some  one  predicted  would  visit  the  country 
that  year,  and  which,  indeed,  had  made  its  appearance  in  a  mild  form  at 
several  points  along  the  Mississippi  River,  had  broken  out  with  much  vio 
lence  at  New  Orleans. 

The  report  that  first  reached  us  through  the  newspapers  was  meagre  and 
contradictory  ;  many  people  discredited  it ;  but  a  letter  from  my  mother 
left  us  no  room  for  doubt.  The  sickness  was  in  the  city.  The  hospitals 
were  filling  up,  and  hundreds  of  the  citizens  were  flying  from  the  stricken 
place  by  every  steamboat.  The  unsettled  state  of  my  father's  affairs  made 
it  imperative  for  him  to  remain  at  his  post ;  his  desertion  at  that  moment 
would  have  been  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  he  had  saved  from  the  general 
wreck. 

As  he  would  be  detained  in  New  Orleans  at  least  three  months,  my 
mother  declined  to  come  North  without  him. 

After  this  we  awaited  with  feverish  impatience  the  weekly  news  that  came 
to  us  from  the  South.  The  next  letter  advised  us  that  my  parents  were 
well,  and  that  the  sickness,  so  far,  had  not  penetrated  to  the  faubourg,  or 
district,  where  they  lived.  The  following  week  brought  less  cheering 
tidings.  My  father's  business,  in  consequence  of  the  flight  of  the  other 
partners,  would  keep  him  in  the  city  beyond  the  period  he  had  mentioned. 
The  family  had  moved  to  Pass  Christian,  a  favorite  watering-place  on  Lake 
Pontchartrain,  near  New  Orleans,  where  he  was  able  to  spend  part  of  each 
week.  So  the  return  North  was  postponed  indefinitely. 

It  was  now  that  the  old  longing  to  see  my  parents  came  back  to  me  with 
irresistible  force.  I  knew  my  grandfather  would  not  listen  to  the  idea  of 
my  going  to  New  Orleans  at  such  a  dangerous  time,  since  he  had  opposed 
the  journey  so  strongly  when  the  same  objection  did  not  exist.  But  I 
determined  to  go  nevertheless. 

I  think  I  have  mentioned  the  fact  that  all  the  male  members  of  our  family, 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  715 

on  my  father's  side,  —  as  far  back  as  the  Middle  Ages,  —  have  exhibited  in 
early  youth  a  decided  talent  for  running  away.  It  was  a  hereditary  talent.  It 
ran  in  the  blood  to  run  away.  I  do  not  pretend  to  explain  the  peculiarity. 
I  simply  admit  it. 

It  was  not  my  fate  to  change  the  prescribed  order  of  things.  I,  too,  was 
to  run  away,  thereby  proving,  if  any  proof  were  needed,  that  I  was  the 
grandson  of  my  grandfather.  I  do  not  hold  myself  responsible  for  the  step 
any  more  than  I  do  for  the  shape  of  my  nose,  which  is  said  to  be  a  fac 
simile  of  Captain  Nutter's. 

When  I  look  back  now,  I  wonder  how  I  had  the  heart  to  dream  of  steal 
ing  off  from  the  old  house  and  all  the  kindly  souls  it  sheltered.  The  heart, 
I  think,  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  was  a  matter  of  destiny  —  and  legs. 

I  have  frequently  noticed  how  circumstances  conspire  to  help  a  man,  or  a 
boy,  when  he  has  thoroughly  resolved  on  doing  a  thing.  That  very  week  the 
Rivermouth  Barnacle  printed  an  advertisement  that  seemed  to  have  been 
written  on  purpose  for  me.  It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

WANTED.  —  A  FEW  ABLE-BODIED  SEAMEN  and  a  Cabin-Boy,  for  the  ship  Raiulings,  now  load 
ing  for  New  Orleans  at  Johnson's  Wharf,  Boston.  Apply  in  person,  within  four  days,  at  the  office 
of  Messrs. &  Co.,  or  on  board  the  Ship. 

How  I  was  to  get  to  New  Orleans  with  only  $  4.62  was  a  question  that 
had  been  bothering  me.  This  advertisement  made  it  as  clear  as  day.  I 
would  go  as  cabin-boy. 

I  had  taken  Pepper  into  my  confidence  again  ;  I  had  told  him  the  story 
of  my  love  for  Miss  Glentworth,  with  all  its  harrowing  details  ;  and  now 
conceived  it  judicious  to  confide  in  him  the  change  about  to  take  place  in 
my  life,  so  that,  if  the  Rawlings  went  down  in  a  gale,  my  friends  might  have 
the  limited  satisfaction  of  knowing  what  had  become  of  me. 

Pepper  shook  his  head  discouragingly,  and  sought  in  every  way  to  dis 
suade  me  from  the  step.  He  drew  a  disenchanting  picture  of  the  existence 
of  a  cabin-boy,  whose  constant  duty  (according  to  Pepper)  was  to  have 
dishes  broken  over  his  head  whenever  the  captain  or  the  mate  chanced  to 
be  out  of  humor,  which  was  mostly  all  the  time.  But  nothing  Pepper  said 
could  turn  me  a  hair's-breadth  from  the  project. 

I  had  little  time  to  spare,  for  the  advertisement  stated  explicitly  that  ap 
plications  were  to  be  made  in  person  within  four  days.  I  trembled  to  think 
of  the  bare  possibility  of  some  other  boy  snapping  up  that  desirable  situa 
tion. 

It  was  on  Monday  that  I  stumbled  upon  the  advertisement.  On  Tuesday 
my  preparations  were  completed.  My  baggage  —  consisting  of  four  shirts, 
half  a  dozen  collars,  a  piece  of  shoemaker's  wax  (Heaven  knows  what  for  ! ) 
and  seven  stockings,  wrapped  in  a  silk  handkerchief —  lay  hidden  under  a 
loose  plank  of  the  stable  floor.  This  was  my  point  of  departure. 

My  plan  was  to  take  the  last  train  for  Boston,  in  order  to  prevent  the  pos 
sibility  of  immediate  pursuit,  if  any  should  be  attempted.  The  train  left  at 
4  p.  M. 

I  ate  no  breakfast  and  little  dinner  that  day.    I  avoided  the  Captain's  eye, 


716  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [November, 

and  would  n't  have  looked  Miss  Abigail  or  Kitty  in  the  face  for  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies. 

When  it  was  time  to  start  for  the  station  I  retired  quietly  to  the  stable 
and  uncovered  my  bundle.  I  lingered  a  moment  to  kiss  the  white  star  on 
Gypsy's  forehead,  and  was  nearly  unmanned  when  the  little  animal  returned 
tke  caress  by  lapping  my  cheek.  Twice  I  went  back  and  patted  her. 

On  reaching  the  station  I  purchased  my  ticket  with  a  bravado  air  that 
ought  to  have  aroused  the  suspicion  of  the  ticket-master,  and  hurried  to 
the  car,  where  I  sat  fidgeting  until  the  train  shot  out  into  the  broad  day 
light. 

Then  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked  about  me.  The  first  object  that 
saluted  my  sight  was  Sailor  Ben,  four  or  five  seats  behind  me,  reading  the 
Rivermouth  Barnacle  ! 

Reading  was  not  an  easy  art  to  Sailor  Ben  ;  he  grappled  with  the  sense 
of  a  paragraph  as  if  it  were  a  polar-bear,  and  generally  got  the  worst  of  it. 
On  the  present  occasion  he  was  having  a  hard  struggle,  judging  by  the  way 
he  worked  his  mouth  and  rolled  his  eyes.  He  had  evidently  not  seen  me. 
But  what  was  he  doing  on  the  Boston  train  ? 

Without  lingering  to  solve  the  question,  I  stole  gently  from  my  seat  and 
passed  into  the  forward  car. 

This  was  very  awkward,  having  the  Admiral  on  board.  I  could  n't  under 
stand  it  at  all.  Could  it  be  possible  that  the  old  boy  had  got  tired  of  land 
and  was  running  away  to  sea  himself  ?  That  was  too  absurd.  I  glanced 
nervously  towards  the  car  door  now  and  then,  half  expecting  to  see  him 
come  after  me. 

We  had  passed  one  or  two  way-stations,  and  I  had  quieted  down  a  good 
deal,  when  I  began  to  feel  as  if  somebody  was  looking  steadily  at  the  back 
of  my  head.  I  turned  round  involuntarily,  and  there  was  Sailor  Ben  again, 
at  the  further  end  of  the  car,  wrestling  with  the  Rivermouth  Barnacle  as 
before. 

I  commenced  to  grow  very  uncomfortable  indeed.  Was  it  by  design  or 
chance  that  he  thus  dogged  my  steps  ?  If  he  was  aware  of  my  presence, 
why  did  n't  he  speak  to  me  at  once  ?  Why  did  he  steal  round,  making  no 
sign,  like  a  particularly  unpleasant  phantom  ?  Maybe  it  wasrit  Sailor  Ben. 
I  peeped  at  him  slyly.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  tanned,  genial  phiz  of 
his.  Very  odd  he  did  n't  see  me  ! 

Literature,  even  in  the  mild  form  of  a  country  newspaper,  always  had  the 
effect  of  poppies  on  the  Admiral.  When  I  stole  another  glance  in  his  direc 
tion,  his  hat  was  tilted  over  his  right  eye  in  the  most  dissolute  style,  and 
the  Rivermouth  Barnacle  lay  in  a  confused  heap  beside  him.  He  had 
succumbed.  He  was  fast,  fast  asleep.  If  he  would  only  keep  asleep  until 
we  reached  our  destination  ! 

By  and  by  I  discovered  that  the  rear  car  had  been  detached  from  the  train 
at  the  last  stopping-place.  This  accounted  satisfactorily  for  Sailor  Ben's 
singular  movements,  and  considerably  calmed  my  fears.  Nevertheless, 
I  did  not  like  the  aspect  of  things. 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


717 


The  Admiral  continued  to  snooze  like  a  good  fellow,  and  was  snoring 
melodiously  as  we  glided  at  a  slackened  pace  over  a  bridge  and  into  Boston. 

I  grasped  my  pilgrim's  bundle,  and,  hurrying  out  of  the  car,  dashed  up 
the  first  street  that  presented  itself. 

It  was  a  narrow,  noisy,  zigzag  street,  crowded  with  trucks  and  obstructed 
with  bales  and  boxes  of  merchandise.  I  did  n't  pause  to  breathe  until  I  had 
placed  a  respectable  distance  between  me  and  the  railway  station.  By  this 
time  it  was  nearly  twilight. 

I  had  got  into  the  region  of  dwelling-houses,  and  was  about  to  seat  my 
self  on  a  doorstep  to  rest,  when,  lo  !  there  was  the  Admiral  trundling  along 
on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  under  a  full  spread  of  canvas,  as  he  would  have 
expressed  it. 


I  was  off  again  in  an  instant  at  a  rapid  pace ;  but  in  spite  of  all  I  could 
do  he  held  his  own  without  any  perceptible  exertion.  He  had  a  very  ugly 
gait  to  get  away  from,  the  Admiral.  I  did  n't  dare  to  run,  for  fear  of  being 
mistaken  for  a  thief,  a  suspicion  which  my  bundle  would  naturally  lend 
color  to. 

I  pushed  ahead,  however,  at  a  brisk  trot,  and  must  have  got  over  one  or 
two  miles,  —  my  pursuer  neither  gaining  nor  losing  ground,  —  when  I  con 
cluded  to  surrender  at  discretion.  I  saw  that  Sailor  Ben  was  determined  to 
have  me,  and,  knowing  my  man,  I  knew  that  escape  was  highly  improb 
able. 


718  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [November, 

So  I  turned  round  and  waited  for  him  to  catch  up  with  me,  which  he  did 
in  a  few  seconds,  looking  rather  sheepish  at  first. 

"  Sailor  Ben,"  said  I,  severely,  "  do  I  understand  that  you  are  dogging  my 
steps  ?  " 

"  Well,  little  messmate,"  replied  the  Admiral,  rubbing  his  nose,  which  he 
always  did  when  he  was  disconcerted,  "  I  am  kind  o'  followin'  in  your 
wake." 

"  Under  orders  ?  " 

"  Under  orders." 

"  Under  the  Captain's  orders  ?  " 

"  Sure-ly." 

"  In  other  words,  my  grandfather  has  sent  you  to  fetch  me  back  to  River- 
mouth  ? " 

"  That 's  about  it,"  said  the  Admiral,  with  a  burst  of  frankness. 

"  And  I  must  go  with  you  whether  I  want  to.  or  not  ?  " 

"  The  Capen's  very  identical  words  !  " 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  bit  my  lips  with  suppressed  anger,  and 
signified  that  I  was  at  his  disposal,  since  I  could  n't  help  it.  The  impres 
sion  was  very  strong  in  my  mind  that  the  Admiral  would  n't  hesitate  to  put 
me  in  irons  if  I  showed  signs  of  mutiny. 

It  was  too  late  to  return  to  Rivermouth  that  night,  —  a  fact  which  I  com 
municated  to  the  old  boy  sullenly,  inquiring  at  the  same  time  what  he 
proposed  to  do  about  it. 

He  said  we  would  cruise  about  for  some  rations,  and  then  make  a  night 
of  it.  I  did  n't  condescend  to  reply,  though  I  hailed  the  suggestion  of  some 
thing  to  eat  with  inward  enthusiasm,  for  I  had  not  taken  enough  food  that 
day  to  keep  life  in  a  canary. 

We  wandered  back  to  the  railway  station,  in  the  waiting-room  of  which 
was  a  kind  of  restaurant  presided  over  by  a  severe-looking  young  lady.  Here 
we  had  a  cup  of  coffee  apiece,  several  tough  doughnuts,  and  some  blocks  of 
venerable  sponge-cake.  The  young  lady  who  attended  on  us,  whatever 
her  age  was  then,  must  have  been  a  mere  child  when  that  sponge-cake  was 
made. 

The  Admiral's  acquaintance  with  Boston  hotels  was  slight ;  but  he  knew 
of  a  quiet  lodging-house  near  by,  much  patronized  by  sea-captains,  and  kept 
by  a  former  friend  of  his. 

In  this  house,  which  had  seen  its  best  days,  we  were  accommodated  with 
a  lonesome  chamber  containing  two  cot-beds,  two  chairs,  and  a  cracked 
pitcher  on  a  washstand.  The  mantel-shelf  was  ornamented  with  three  big 
pink  conch-shells,  resembling  pieces  of  petrified  liver  ;  and  over  these  hung 
a  cheap  lurid  print,  in  which  a  United  States  sloop-of-war  was  giving  a 
British  frigate  particular  fits.  It  is  very  strange  how  our  own  ships  never 
seem  to  suffer  any  in  these  terrible  engagements.  It  shows  what  a  nation 
we  are. 

An  oil-lamp  on  a  deal-table  cast  a  dismal  glare  over  the  apartment,  which 
was  cheerless  in  the  extreme.  I  thought  of  our  sitting-room  at  home,  with 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  719 

its  flowery  wall-paper  and  gay  curtains  and  soft  lounges  ;  I  saw  Major  Elka- 
nah  Nutter  (my  grandfather's  father)  in  powdered  wig  and  Federal  uniform, 
looking  down  benevolently  from  his  gilt  frame  between  the  bookcases  ;  I 
pictured  the  Captain  and  Miss  Abigail  sitting  at  the  cosey  round  table  in  the 
moon-like  glow  of  the  astral  lamp ;  and  then  I  fell  to  wondering  how  they 
would  receive  me  when  I  came  back.  I  wondered  if  the  Prodigal  Son  had 
any  idea  that  his  father  was  going  to  kill  the  fatted  calf  for  him,  and  how  he 
felt  about  it,  on  the  whole. 

Though  I  was  very  low  in  spirits,  I  put  on  a  bold  front  to  Sailor  Ben,  you 
will  understand.  To  be  caught  and  caged  in  this  manner  was  a  frightful 
shock  to  my  vanity.  He  tried  to  draw  me  into  conversation  ;  but  I  answered 
in  icy  monosyllables.  He  again  suggested  we  should  make  a  night  of  it, 
and  hinted  broadly  that  he  was  game  for  any  amount  of  riotous  dissipation, 
even  to  the  extent  of  going  to  see  a  play  if  I  wanted  to.  I  declined  haugh 
tily.  I  was  dying  to  go. 

He  then  threw  out  a  feeler  on  the  subject  of  dominos  and  checkers,  and 
observed  in  a  general  way  that  "  seven  up  "  was  a  capital  game  ;  but  I  re 
pulsed  him  at  every  point. 

I  saw  that  the  Admiral  was  beginning  to  feel  hurt  at  my  systematic  cold 
ness.  We  had  always  been  such  hearty  friends  until  now.  It  was  too  bad 
of  me  to  fret  that  tender,  honest  old  heart  even  for  an  hour.  I  really  did 
love  the  ancient  boy,  and  when,  in  a  disconsolate  way,  he  ordered  up  a 
pitcher  of  beer,  I  unbent  so  far  as  to  partake  of  some  in  a  teacup.  He  re 
covered  his  spirits  instantly,  and  took  out  his  cuddy  clay  pipe  for  a  smoke. 

Between  the  beer  and  the  soothing  fragrance  of  the  navy-plug,  I  fell  into 
a  pleasanter  mood  myself,  and,  it  being  too  late  now  to  go  to  the  theatre, 
I  condescended  to  say,  —  addressing  the  northwest  corner  of  the  ceiling,  — 
that  "  seven  up  "  was  a  capital  game.  Upon  this  hint  the  Admiral  disap 
peared,  and  returned  shortly  with  a  very  dirty  pack  of  cards. 

As  we  played,  with  varying  fortunes,  by  the  flickering  flame  of  the  lamp, 
he  sipped  his  beer  and  became  communicative.  He  seemed  immensely 
tickled  by  the  fact  that  I  had  come  to  Boston.  It  leaked  out  presently  that 
he  and  the  Captain  had  had  a  wager  on  the  subject. 

The  discovery  of  my  plans  and  who  had  discovered  them  were  points  on 
which  the  Admiral  refused  to  throw  any  light.  They  had  been  discovered, 
however,  and  the  Captain  had  laughed  at  the  idea  of  my  running  away. 
Sailor  Ben,  on  the  contrary,  had  stoutly  contended  that  I  meant  to  slip 
cable  and  be  off.  Whereupon  the  Captain  offered  to  bet  him  a  dollar  that  I 
would  n't  go.  And  it  was  partly  on  account  of  this  wager  that  Sailor  Ben 
refrained  from  capturing  me  when  he  might  have  done  so  at  the  start. 

Now,  as  the  fare  to  and  from  Boston,  with  the  lodging  expenses,  would 
cost  him  at  least  five  dollars,  I  did  n't  see  what  he  gained  by  winning  the 
wager.  The  Admiral  rubbed  his  nose  violently  when  this  view  of  the  case 
presented  itself. 

I  asked  him  why  he  did  n't  take  me  from  the  train  at  the  first  stopping- 
place  and  return  to  Rivermouth  by  the  down  train  at  4.30.  He  explained  : 


720  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [November, 

having  purchased  a  ticket  for  Boston,  he  considered  himself  bound  to  the 
owners  (the  stockholders  of  the  road)  to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  contract ! 

This  struck  me  as  being  so  deliciously  funny,  that  after  I  was  in  bed  and 
the  light  was  out,  I  could  n't  help  laughing  aloud  once  or  twice.  I  suppose 
the  Admiral  must  have  thought  I  was  meditating  another  escape,  for  he 
made  periodical  visits  to  my  bed  throughout  the  night,  satisfying  himself 
by  kneading  me  all  over  that  I  had  n't  evaporated. 

I  was  all  there,  however,  the  next  morning,  when  Sailor  Ben  half  awakened 
me  by  shouting  merrily,  "  All  hands  on  deck  !  "  The  words  rang  in  my  ears 
like  a  part  of  my  own  dream,  for  I  was  at  that  instant  climbing  up  the  side  of 
the  Rawlings  to  offer  myself  as  cabin-boy  for  the  voyage. 

The  Admiral  was  obliged  to  shake  me  two  or  three  times  before  he  could 
detach  me  from  the  dream.  I  opened  my  eyes  with  effort,  and  stared  stu 
pidly  round  the  room.  Bit  by  bit  my  real  situation  dawned  on  me.  What 
a  sickening  sensation  that  is,  when  one  is  in  trouble,  to  wake  up  feeling 
free  for  a  moment,  and  then  to  find  yesterday's  sorrow  all  ready  to  go  on 
again  ! 

"  Well,  little  messmate,  how  fares  it  ?  " 

I  was  too  much  depressed  to  reply.  The  thought  of  returning  to  River- 
mouth  chilled  me.  How  could  I  face  Captain  Nutter,  to  say  nothing  of  Miss 
Abigail  and  Kitty  ?  How  the  Temple  Grammar  School  boys  would  look  at 
me  !  How  Conway  and  Seth  Rodgers  would  exult  over  my  mortification  ! 
And  what  if  the  Rev.  Wibird  Hawkins  should  allude  to  me  publicly,  as  "an 
awful  example  of  total  depravity,"  in  his  next  Sunday's  sermon  ?  Sailor 
Ben  was  wise  in  keeping  an  eye  on  me,  for  after  these  thoughts  took  pos 
session  of  my  mind,  I  wanted  only  the  opportunity  to  give  him  the  slip. 

The  keeper  of  the  lodgings  did  not  supply  meals  to  his  guests  ;  so  we 
breakfasted  at  a  small  chop-house  in  a  crooked  street  on  our  way  to  the 
cars.  The  city  was  not  astir  yet,  and  looked  glum  and  careworn  in  the 
damp  morning  atmosphere. 

Here  and  there  as  we  passed  along  was  a  sharp-faced  shop-boy  taking 
down  shutters  ;  and  now  and  then  we  met  a  seedy  man  who  had  evidently 
spent  the  night  in  a  doorway.  Such  early  birds  and  a  few  laborers  with  their 
tin  kettles  were  the  only  signs  of  life  to  be  seen  until  we  came  to  the  station, 
where  I  insisted  on  paying  for  my  own  ticket.  I  did  n't  relish  being  con 
veyed  from  place  to  place,  like  a  felon  changing  prisons,  at  somebody  else's 
expense. 

On  entering  the  car  I  sunk  into  a  seat  next  the  window,  and  Sailor  Ben 
deposited  himself  beside  me,  cutting  off  all  chance  of  escape. 

The  car  filled  up  soon  after  this,  and  I  wondered  if  there  was  anything  in 
my  mien  that  would  lead  the  other  passengers  to  suspect  I  was  a  boy  who 
had  run  away  and  was  being  brought  back. 

A  man  in  front  of  us  —  he  was  near-sighted,  as  I  discovered  later  by  his 
reading  a  guide-book  with  his  nose  —  brought  the  blood  to  my  cheeks  by 
turning  round  and  peering  at  me  steadily.  I  rubbed  a  clear  spot  on  the 
cloudy  window-glass  at  my  elbow,  and^looked  out  to  avoid  him. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 

There,  in  the  travellers'  room,  was  the  severe-looking  young  lady  piling 
up  her  blocks  of  sponge-cake  in  alluring  pyramids  and  industriously  in 
trenching  herself  behind  a  breastwork  of  squash-pie.  I  saw  with  cynical 
pleasure  numerous  victims  walk  up  to  the  counter  and  recklessly  sow  the 
seeds  of  death  in  their  constitutions  by  eating  her  doughnuts.  I  had  got 
quite  interested  in  her,  when  the  whistle  sounded  and  the  train  began  to 
move. 

The  Admiral  and  I  did  not  talk  much  on  the  journey.  I  stared  out  of  the 
window  most  of  the  time,  speculating  as  to  the  probable  nature  of  the  recep 
tion  in  store  for  me  at  the  terminus  of  the  road. 

What  would  the  Captain  say  ?  and  Mr.  Grimshaw,  what  would  he  do 
about  it  ?  Then  I  thought  of  Pepper  Whitcomb.  Dire  was  the  vengeance 
I  meant  to  wreak  on  Pepper,  for  who  but  he  had  betrayed  me  ?  Pepper 
alone  had  been  the  repository  of  my  secret,  —  perfidious  Pepper  ! 

As  we  left  station  after  station  behind  us,  I  felt  less  and  less  like  encoun 
tering  the  members  of  our  family.  Sailor  Ben  fathomed  what  was  passing 
in  my  mind,  for  he  leaned  over  and  said,  — 

"  I  don't  think  as  the  Capen  will  bear  down  very  hard  on  you." 

But  it  was  n't  that.  It  was  n't  the  fear  of  any  physical  punishment  that 
might  be  inflicted  ;  it  was  a  sense  of  my  own  folly  that  was  creeping  over 
me  ;  for  during  the  long,  silent  ride  I  had  examined  my  conduct  from  every 
stand-point,  and  there  was  no  view  I  could  take  of  myself  in  which  I  did  not 
look  like  a  very  foolish  person  indeed. 

As  we  came  within  sight  of  the  spires  of  Rivermouth,  I  would  n't  have 
cared  if  the  up  train,  which  met  us  outside  the  town,  had  run  into  us  and 
ended  me. 

Contrary  to  my  expectation  and  dread,  the  Captain  was  not  visible  when 
we  stepped  from  the  cars.  Sailor  Ben  glanced  among  the  crowd  of  faces, 
apparently  looking  for  him  too.  Conway  was  there,  —  he  was  always  hanging 
about  the  station,  —  and  if  he  had  intimated  in  any  way  that  he  knew  of  my 
disgrace  and  enjoyed  it,  I  should  have  walked  into  him,  I  am  certain. 

But  this  defiant  feeling  entirely  deserted  me  by  the  time  we  reached  the 
Nutter  House.  The  Captain  himself  opened  the  door. 

"  Come  on  board,  sir,"  said  Sailor  Ben,  scraping  his  left  foot  and  touch 
ing  his  hat  sea-fashion. 

My  grandfather  nodded  to  Sailor  Ben,  somewhat  coldly  I  thought,  and 
much  to  my  astonishment  kindly  took  me  by  the  hand.  * 

I  was  unprepared  for  this,  and  the  tears,  which  no  amount  of  severity 
would  have  wrung  from  me,  welled  up  to  my  eyes. 

The  expression  of  my  grandfather's  face,  as  I  glanced  at  it  hastily,  was 
grave  and  gentle  ;  there  was  nothing  in  it  of  anger  or  reproof.  I  followed 
him  into  the  sitting-room,  and,  obeying  a  motion  of  his  hand,  seated  myself 
on  the  sofa.  He  remained  standing  by  the  round  table  for  a  moment,  lost 
in  thought,  then  leaned  over  and  picked  up  a  letter. 

It  was  a  letter  with  a  great  black  seal. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


722  The  First  New  England  Thanksgiving.  [November, 


THE   FIRST  NEW   ENGLAND   THANKSGIVING. 

"  A  BOTHER  piece  of  turkey,  please,  and  some  stuffing ;  I  love  stuff- 
**•  ing,  and  ma  always  makes  hers  so  nice.  O  yes !  I  can  find  room 
for  mince-pie  directly." 

Of  course  it  was  Thanksgiving.  The  snow  was  beating  against  the  win 
dows,  sifting  in  under  the  door,  and  drifting  across  the  roadway.  At  the 
rate  it  was  falling  and  drifting,  the  railroads  would  be  blocked  before  night. 
No  matter,  Uncle  Peter  and  Aunt  Susan  had  arrived  by  the  morning  train  ; 
Uncle  Fred  and  Aunt  Maria,  with  Cousin  Will  and  the  twins,  had  come  over 
in  the  wagon  ;  and  everybody  that  was  not  wanted  to  cook  the  dinner  had 
been  to  church  and  returned,  stamping  off  the  snow  at  the  doorstep,  as 
hungry  as  hunters.  Then  ma  bustled  about,  and  presently  she  came  into  the 
sitting-room  with  her  face  as  warm  and  red  as  a  peony,  and  said,  "  Come, 
folks,  dinner 's  ready,"  and  out  we  all  went  into  the  dining-room,  and 
there  do  you  believe  was  the  biggest  turkey  you  ever  saw  !  Grandma 
lifted  her  hands  and  exclaimed,  "  Well,  if  that  is  rtt  a  Thanksgiving  turkey, 
I  declare!" 

"  Is  n't  it  a  beauty  ?  "  said  ma,  and  then  we  young  ones  clapped  our  hands, 
and  all  had  to  say  something  about  the  turkey. 

If  we  did  n't  feast  on  that  turkey  !  Cousin  Will  got  the  wishbone  and 
broke  it  with  our  Mary,  and  he  got  the  wish.  We  all  asked  what  his 
wish  was,  but  he  said  he  would  tell  Mary  some  day,  and  she  blushed.  Then 
we  had  mince-pie.  Grandma  said  it  was  real  nice  pie,  and  ma  said,  "It 
ought  to  be  nice,  for  you  taught  me  how  to  make  it,"  and  it  was  nice.  Then 
we  had  games,  and  forfeits,  and  cider,  and  apples,  and  a  real  good  time, 
although  the  wind  did  whistle  in  the  chimney  and  shake  the  shutters,  and 
the  snow  beat  against  the  window  almost  like  hail.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  long 
time  ago  that  was  ! 

I  remember  Aunt  Susan  asked  grandma  if  they  used  to  have  Thanks 
givings  when  she  was  young.  "  Why,  bless  me,  my  dear,  yes,"  said  she, 
"  and  ever  so  long  before.  I  don't  know  when  the  first  Thanksgiving  was." 
And  Uncle  Peter  did  n't  know,  nor  did  Uncle  Fred,  and  Pa  said  he  had 
heard  it  talked  about  once,  but  those  who  discussed  it  seemed  uncertain 
about  the  date  and  occasion.  So  the  matter  was  given  up.  But  it  is  scarcely 
right  that  young  Americans  should  be  ignorant  of  the  origin  of  one  of  the 
most  important  days  in  their  year,  and  the  readers  of  Our  Young  Folks,  at 
all  events,  shall  be  so  no  longer. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  landed  in  December.  It  was  an  unusually  mild 
winter  for  that  part  of  the  country.  There  was  little  snow,  but  there  were 
many  cold  rain-storms.  Mild  as  was  the  weather,  they  suffered  greatly  from 
exposure  and  hardships.  The  men  travelled  through  the  woods  for  days, 
oftentimes  drenched  with  rain  that  froze  upon  their  clothing,  and  they  slept 
in  the  open  air  at  night,  until  a  place  had  been  found  on  which  to  make 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

An  Illustrated  Magazine 
FOR    BOYS    AND    GIRLS. 


VOL.  V. 


DECEMBER,    1869. 


No.  XII. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BAD    BOY. 
CHAPTER  XXI. 

IN  WHICH   I  LEAVE  RIVERMOUTH. 


LETTER  with  a  great  black  seal ! 

I  knew  then  what  had  happened  as  well  as 
I  know  it -now.  But  which  was  it,  father  or 
mother?  I  do  not  like  to  look  back  to  the 
agony  and  suspense  of  that  moment. 

My  father  had  died  at  New  Orleans  during 
one  of  his  weekly  visits  to  the  city.  The  letter 
bearing  these  tidings  had  reached  Rivermouth 
the  evening  of  my  flight,  —  had  passed  me  on 
the  road  by  the  down  train. 

I  must  turn  back  for  a  moment  to  that 
eventful  evening.  When  I  failed  to  make  my 
appearance  at  supper,  the  Captain  began  to> 
suspect  that  I  had  really  started  on  my  wild 
tour  southward,  —  a  conjecture  which  Sailor 
Ben's  absence  helped  to  confirm.  I  had  evi 
dently  got  off  by  the  train  and  Sailor  Ben  had 
followed  me. 

There  was  no  telegraphic  communication 
between  Boston  and  Rivermouth  in  those 
days  ;  so  my  grandfather  could  do  nothing  but 
await  the  result.  Even  if  there  had  been  an 
other  mail  to  Boston,  he  could  not  have  availed  himself  of  it,  not  knowing 
how  to  address  a  message  to  the  fugitives.  The  post-office  was  naturally 
the  last  place  either  I  or  the  Admiral  would  think  of  visiting. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  C<x,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

VOL.  v.  —  NO.  xii.  55 


786  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [December, 

My  grandfather,  however,  was  too  full  of  trouble  to  allow  this  to  add  to 
his  distress.  He  knew  that  the  faithful  old  sailor  would  not  let  me  come  to 
any  harm,  and,  even  if  I  had  managed  for  the  time  being  to  elude  him,  was 
sure  to  bring  me  back  sooner  or  later. 

Our  return,  therefore,  by  the  first  train  on  the  following  day  did  not  sur 
prise  him. 

I  was  greatly  puzzled,  as  I  have  said,  by  the  gentle  manner  of  his  recep 
tion  ;  but  when  we  were  alone  together  in  the  sitting-room,  and  he  began 
slowly  to  unfold  the  letter,  I  understood  it  all.  I  caught  a  sight  of  my 
mother's  handwriting  in  the  superscription,  and  there  was  nothing  left  to 
tell  me. 

My  grandfather  held  the  letter  a  few  seconds  irresolutely,  and  then  com 
menced  reading  it  aloud ;  but  he  could  get  no  further  than  the  date. 

"  I  can't  read  it,  Tom,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  breaking  down.  "  I 
thought  I  could." 

He  handed  it  to  me.  I  took  the  letter  mechanically,  and  hurried  away 
with  it  to  my  little  room,  where  I  had  passed  so  many  happy  hours. 

The  week  that  followed  the  receipt  of  this  letter  is  nearly  a  blank  in  my 
memory.  I  remember  that  the  days  appeared  endless ;  that  at  times  I 
could  not  realize  the  misfortune  that  had  befallen  us,  and  my  heart  upbraided 
me  for  not  feeling  a  deeper  grief;  that  a  full  sense  of  my  loss  would  now 
and  then  sweep  over  me  like  an  inspiration,  and  I  would  steal  away  to  my 
chamber  or  wander  forlornly  about  the  gardens.  I  remember  this,  but 
little  more. 

As  the  days  went  by  my  first  grief  subsided,  and  in  its  place  grew  up  a 
want  which  I  have  experienced  at  every  step  in  life  from  boyhood  to  man 
hood.  Often,  even  now,  after  all  these  years,  when  I  see  a  lad  of  twelve 
or  fourteen  walking  by  his  father's  side,  and  glancing  merrily  up  at  his  face, 
I  turn  and  look  after  them,  and  am  conscious  that  I  have  missed  compan 
ionship  most  sweet  and  sacred. 

I  shall  not  dwell  on  this  portion  of  my  story,  which,  like  the  old  year,  is 
drawing  to  an  end.  There  were  many  tranquil,  pleasant  hours  in  store  for 
me  at  that  period,  and  I  prefer  to  turn  to  them. 

One  evening  the  Captain  came  smiling  into  the  sitting-room  with  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand.  My  mother  had  arrived  at  New  York,  and  would  be  with 
us  the  next  day.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  —  years,  it  seemed  to  me  — 
something  of  the  old  cheerfulness  mingled  with  our  conversation  round  the 
evening  lamp.  I  was  to  go  to  Boston  with  the  Captain  to  meet  her  and 
bring  her  home.  I  need  not  describe  that  meeting.  With  my  mother's 
hand  in  mine  once  more,  all  the  long  years  we  had  been  parted  appeared 
like  a  dream.  Very  dear  to  me  was  the  sight  of  that  slender,  pale  woman 
passing  from  room  to  room,  and  lending  a  patient  grace  and  beauty  to  the 
saddened  life  of  the  old  house. 

Everything  was  changed  with  us  now.  There  were  consultations  with 
lawyers,  and  signing  of  papers,  and  correspondence  ;  for  my  father's  affairs 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  787 

had  been  left  in  great  confusion.  And  when  these  were  settled,  the  even 
ings  were  not  long  enough  for  us  to  hear  all  my  mother  had  to  tell  of  the 
scenes  she  had  passed  through  in  the  ill-fated  city. 

Then  there  were  old  times  to  talk  over,  full  of  reminiscences  of  Aunt 
Chloe  and  little  Black  Sam.  Little  Black  Sam,  by  the  by,  had  been  taken 
by  his  master  from  my  father's  service  ten  months  previously,  and  put  on  a 
sugar-plantation  near  Baton  Rouge.  Not  relishing  the  change,  Sam  had 
run  away,  and  by  some  mysterious  agency  got  into  Canada,  from  which 
place  he  had  sent  back  several  indecorous  messages  to  his  late  owner. 
Aunt  Chloe  was  still  in  New  Orleans,  employed  as  nurse  in  one  of  the 
cholera  hospital  wards,  arid  the  Desmoulins,  near  neighbors  of  ours,  had 
purchased  the  pretty  stone  house  among  the  orange-trees. 

How  all  these  simple  details  interested  me  will  be  readily  understood  by 
any  boy  who  has  been  long  absent  from  home. 

I  was  sorry  when  it  became  necessary  to  discuss  questions  more  nearly 
affecting  myself.  I  had  been  removed  from  school  temporarily,  but  it  was 
decided,  after  much  consideration,  that  I  should  not  return,  the  decision 
being  left,  in  a  manner,  in  my  own  hands. 

The  Captain  wished  to  carry  out  his  son's  intention  and  send  me  to 
college,  for  which  I  was  nearly  fitted ;  but  our  means  did  not  admit  of  this. 
The  Captain,  too,  could  ill  aiford  to  bear  the  expense,  for  his  losses  by  the 
failure  of  the  New  Orleans  business  had  been  heavy.  Yet  he  insisted  on 
the  plan,  not  seeing  clearly  what  other  disposal  to  make  of  me. 

In  the  midst  of  our  discussions  a  letter  came  from  my  Uncle  Snow,  a 
merchant  in  New  York,  generously  offering  me  a  place  in  his  counting- 
house.  The  case  resolved  itself  into  this  :  If  I  went  to  college,  I  should 
have  to  be  dependent  on  Captain  Nutter  for  several  years,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  collegiate  course  would  have  no  settled  profession.  If  I  accepted  my 
uncle's  offer,  I  might  hope  to  work  my  way  to  independence  without  loss  of 
time.  It  was  hard  to  give  up  the  long-cherished  dream  of  being  a  Harvard 
boy  ;  but  I  gave  it  up. 

The  decision  once  made,  it  was  Uncle  Snow's  wish  that  I  should  enter 
his  counting-house  immediately.  The  cause  of  my  good  uncle's  haste  was 
this, — he  was  afraid  that  I  would  turn  out  to  be  a  poet  before,  he  could 
make  a  merchant  of  me.  His  fears  were  based  upon  the  fact  that  I  had 
published  in  the  Rivermouth  Barnacle  some  verses  addressed  in  a  familiar 
manner  "  Tf>  the  Moon."  Now.  the  idea  of  a  boy,  with  his  living  to  get, 
placing  himself  in  communication  with  the  Moon,  struck  the  mercantile 
mind  as  monstrous.  It  was  not  only  a  bad  investment,  it  was  lunacy. 

We  adopted  Uncle  Snow's  views  so  far  as  to  accede  to  his  proposition 
forthwith.  My  mother,  I  neglected  to  say,  was  also  to  reside  in  New  York. 

I  shall  not  draw  a  picture  of  Pepper  Whitcomb's  disgust  when  the  news 
was  imparted  to  him,  nor  attempt  to  paint  Sailor  Ben's  distress  at  the  pros 
pect  of  losing  his  little  messmate. 

In  the  excitement  of  preparing  for  the  journey  I  didn't  feel  any  very 
deep  regret  myself.  But  when  the  moment  came  for  leaving,  and  I  saw 


;88  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  [December, 

my  small  trunk  lashed  up  behind  the  carriage,  then  the  pleasantness  of  the 
old  life  and  a  vague  dread  of  the  new  came  over  me,  and  a  mist  filled  my 
eyes,  shutting  out  the  group  of  schoolfellows,  including  all  the  members  of 
the  Centipede  Club,  who  had  come  down  to  the  house  to  see  me  off. 

As  the  carriage  swept  round  the  corner,  I  leaned  out  of  the  window  to 
take  a  last  look  at  Sailor  Ben's  cottage,  and  there  was  the  Admiral's  flag 
flying  at  half-mast  ! 

So  I  left  Rivermouth,  little  dreaming  that  I  was  not  to  see  the  old  place 
again  for  many  and  many  a  year. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

EXEUNT   OMNES. 

WITH  the  close  of  my  school-days  at  Rivermouth  this  modest  chronicle 
ends. 

The  new  life  upon  which  I  entered,  the  new  friends  and  foes  I  encoun 
tered  on  the  road,  and  what  I  did  and  what  I  did  not,  are  matters  that 
do  not  come  within  the  scope  of  these  pages.  But  before  I  write  Finis  to 
the  record  as  it  stands,  before  I  leave  it,  —  feeling  as  if  I  were  once  more 
going  away  from  my  boyhood,  —  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  concerning  a 
few  of  the  personages  who  have  figured  in  the  story,  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
call  Gypsy  a  personage. 

I  am  sure  that  the  reader  who  has  foltowed  me  thus  far  will  be  willing  to 
hear  what  became  of  her,  and  Sailor  Ben  and  Miss  Abigail  and  the  Cap 
tain. 

First  about  Gypsy.  A  month  after  my  departure  from  Rivermouth  the 
Captain  informed  me  by  letter  that  he  had  parted  with  the  little  mare,  ac 
cording  to  agreement.  She  had  been  sold  to  the  ring-master  of  a  travelling 
circus  (I  had  stipulated  on  this  disposal  of  her),  and  was  about  to  set  out  on 
her  travels.  She  did  not  disappoint  my  glowing  anticipations,  but  became 
quite  a  celebrity  in  her  way,  —  by  dancing  the  polka  to  slow  music  on  a 
pine-board  ball-room  constructed  for  the  purpose. 

I  chanced  once,  a  long  while  afterwards,  to  be  in  a  country  town  where 
her  troup  was  giving  exhibitions  ;  I  even  read  the  gaudily  illumined  show 
bill,  setting  forth  the  accomplishments  of 


ZULEIKA!! 

FORMERLY    OWNED    BY 
THE  PRINCE  SHAZ-ZAMAN  OF  DAMASCUS, 

—  but  failed  to  recognize  my  dear  little  Mustang  girl  behind  those  high- 
sounding  titles,  and  so,  alas  !  did  not  attend  the  performance. 


1869.]  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  789 

I  hope  all  the  praises  she  received  and  all  the  spangled  trappings  she 
wore  did  not  spoil  her ;  but  I  am  afraid  they  did,  for  she  was  always  over 
much  given  to  the  vanities  of  this  world  ! 

Miss  Abigail  regulated  the  domestic  destinies  of  my  grandfather's  house 
hold  until  the  day  of  her  death,  which  Dr.  Theophilus  Tredick  solemnly 
averred  was  hastened  by  the  inveterate  habit  she  had  contracted  of  swal 
lowing  unknown  quantities  of  hot-drops  whenever  she  fancied  herself  out 
of  sorts.  Eighty-seven  empty  phials  were  found  in  a  bonnet-box  on  a  shelf 
in  her  bedroom  closet. 

The  old  house  became  very  lonely  when  the  family  got  reduced  to  Cap 
tain  Nutter  and  Kitty ;  and  when  Kitty  passed  away,  my  grandfather  divided 
his  time  between  Rivermouth  and  New  York. 

Sailor  Ben  did  not  long  survive  his  little  Irish  lass,  as  he  always  fondly 
called  her.  At  his  demise,  which  took  place  about  six  years  since,  he  left 
his  property  in  trust  to  the  managers  of  a  "  Home  for  Aged  Mariners."  In 
his  will,  which  was  a  very  whimsical  document,  —  written  by  himself,  and 
worded  with  much  shrewdness,  too,  —  he  warned  the  Trustees  that  when 
he  got  "  aloft  "  he  intended  to  keep  his  "  weather  eye  "  on  them,  and  should 
send  "  a  speritual  shot  across  their  bows  "  and  bring  them  to,  if  they  did  n't 
treat  the  Aged  Mariners  handsomely. 

He  also  expressed  a  wish  to  have  his  body  stitched  up  in  a  shotted  ham 
mock  and  dropped  into  the  harbor;  but  as  he  did  not  strenuously  insist 
on  this,  and  as  it  was  not  in  accordance  with  my  grandfather's  preconceived 
notions  of  Christian  burial,  the  Admiral  was  laid  to  rest  beside  Kitty,  in  the 
Old  South  Burying  Ground,  with  an  anchor  that  would  have  delighted  him 
neatly  carved  on  his  headstone. 

I  am  sorry  the  fire  has  gone  out  in  the  old  ship's  stove  in  that  sky-blue 
cottage  at  the  head  of  the  wharf;  I  am  sorry  they  have  taken  down  the 
flag-staff  and  painted  over  the  funny  port-holes ;  for  I  loved  the  old  cabin 
as  it  was.  They  might  have  let  it  alone  ! 

For  several  months  after  leaving  Rivermouth  I  carried  on  a  voluminous 
correspondence  with  Pepper  Whitcomb  ;  but  it  gradually  dwindled  down  to 
a  single  letter  a  month,  and  then  to  none  at  all.  But  while  he  remained  at 
the  Temple  Grammar  School  he  kept  me  advised  of  the  current  gossip  of 
the  town  and  the  doings  of  the  Centipedes. 

As  one  by  one  the  boys  left  the  academy,  —  Adams,  Harris,  Marden, 
Blake,  and  Langdon,  —  to  seek  their  fortunes  elsewhere,  there  was  less 
to  interest  me  in  the  old  seaport ;  and  when  Pepper  himself  went  to  Phila 
delphia  to  read  law,  I  had  no  one  to  give  me  an  inkling  of  what  was  going 
on. 

There  was  n't  much  to  go  on,  to  be  sure.  Great  events  no  longer  consid 
ered  it  worth  their  while  to  honor  so  quiet  a  place.  One  Fourth  of  July  the 
Temple  Grammar  School  burnt  down, —  set  fire,  it  was  supposed,  by  an 
eccentric  squib  that  was  seen  to  bolt  into  an  upper  window,  —  and  Mr. 
Grimshaw  retired  from  public  life,  married,  "  and  lived  happily  ever  after," 
as  the  story-books  say. 


79°  How  to  do  it.  [December, 

The  Widow  Conway,  I  am  able  to  state,  did  not  succeed  in  enslaving  Mr. 
Meeks,  the  apothecary,  who  united  himself  clandestinely  to  one  of  Miss 
Dorothy  Gibbs's  young  ladies,  and  lost  the  patronage  of  Primrose  Hall  in 
consequence. 

Young  Conway  went  into  the  grocery  business  with  his  ancient  chum, 
Rogers,  —  ROGERS  &  CONWAY  !  I  read  the  sign  only  last  summer  when  I 
was  down  in  Rivermouth,  and  had  half  a  mind  to  pop  into  the  shop  and 
shake  hands  with  him,  and  ask  him  if  he  wanted  to  fight.  I  contented  my 
self,  however,  with  flattening  my  nose  against  his  dingy  shop-window,  and 
beheld  Conway,  in  red  whiskers  and  blue  overalls,  weighing  out  sugar  for  a 
customer,  —  giving  him  short  weight,  I  '11  bet  anything  ! 

I  have  reserved  my  pleasantest  word  for  the  last.  It  is  touching  the 
Captain.  The  Captain  is  still  hale  and  rosy,  and  if  he  does  n't  relate  his 
exploit  in  the  War  of  1812  as  spiritedly  as  he  used  to,  he  makes  up  by  relat 
ing  it  more  frequently  and  telling  it  differently  every  time  !  He  passes  his 
winters  in  New  York  and  his  summers  in  the  Nutter  House,  which  threatens 
to  prove  a  hard  nut  for  the  destructive  gentleman  with  the  scythe  and  the 
hour-glass,  for  the  seaward  gable  has  not  yielded  a  clapboard  to  the  east- 
wind  these  twenty  years.  The  Captain  has  now  become  the  Oldest  Inhabi 
tant  in  Rivermouth,  and  so  I  don't  laugh  at  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  any  more, 
but  pray  in  my  heart  that  he  may  occupy  the  post  of  honor  for  half  a  cen 
tury  to  come ! 

So  ends  the  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  —  but  not  such  a  very  bad  boy,  as  I  told 
you  to  begin  with. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


HOW    TO    DO    IT. 
V.   HOW  TO   GO   INTO   SOCIETY. 

SOME  boys  and  girls  are  born  so  that  they  enjoy  society,  and  all  the 
forms  of  society,  from  the  beginning.  The  passion  they  have  for  it 
takes  them  right  through  all  the  formalities  and  stiffness  of  morning  calls, 
evening  parties,  visits  on  strangers,  and  the  like,  and  they  have  no  difficulty 
about  the  duties  involved  in  these  things.  I  do  not  write  for  them,  and 
there  is  no  need,  at  all,  of  their  reading  this  paper. 

There  are  other  boys  and  girls  who  look  with  half  horror  and  half  disgust 
at  all  such  machinery  of  society.  They  have  been  well  brought  up,  in  intel 
ligent,  civilized,  happy  homes.  They  have  their  own  varied  and  regular 
occupations,  and  it  breaks  these  all  up,  when  they  have  to  go  to  the  birth 
day  party  at  the  Glascocks',  or  to  spend  the  evening  with  the  young  lady 
from  Vincennes  who  is  visiting  Mrs.  Schemerhorn. 

When  they  have  grown  older,  it  happens,  very  likely,  that  such  boys  and 


5s 


wit 

^  .•  .-^^^KJt' 


* 


